


Out Of Time

by TheTalkingPeanut



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, Batjokes, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Cuz Grundy, Damaged Arthur Fleck, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive Arthur Fleck, Obsessive Joker, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Bruce Wayne, Pseudobulbar-Effect Arthur, Time Travel, Zombies, adult!bruce wayne, of sorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTalkingPeanut/pseuds/TheTalkingPeanut
Summary: Bruce Wayne only wanted to see his parents one more time. That was all. Just see them. Somehow a miraculous incident opened such a doorway for him. What he didn't expect to happen, was to come across a man so harmed by life that no one would save, but also to feel an alarming connection to him and an obscure sense that they've met before...
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Batman, Arthur Fleck/Bruce Wayne, Batjokes - Relationship, Batman/Joker, Bruce Wayne/Joker, Joker & Joker, Joker/Joker
Comments: 98
Kudos: 370





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is not my first rodeo in Batjokes. BUT. It is for being this explicit. I'm actually writing this first on Wattpad (don't ask why cuz I don't know) and am already 4 chapters in. I am going to continue to post there first (no real reason why again) but I think it's mostly to test myself into actually getting a big fic done for fucking once. I can't STAND that I have a habit of not finishing, so I'm testing myself to see if I can do it there first.  
> And oddly. It's working so far. I have no idea either.  
> I told myself that I would ONLY post it up here when I got 4 chapters in there. Well. I just did. So. Here we are :)

There are strange pocket anomalies on the planet Earth not noticeable with the naked eye. 

They vary in intensity and purpose, cause and meaning. Their locations are a mixed bag of chance with aimless positioning. They can be transient - so rarely expect them to be in the same place twice in a row.

The 'lucky' few who have found them rarely talk about the experience. This is due to several reasons; a few examples are 'they can't recall,' or 'were too horrific to speak of,' or 'no one will believe them for they hardly believe it themselves'.

Or worsed case scenario; they are never seen again. Or are no longer among the living.

No matter the reason, it remains a moot point. One either believes they exist or they don't. Simple as that.

The proof is not always in the Pudding. Some things cannot be proven although they are unequivocally true nonetheless. These odd abnormalities are real.

What is their purpose? Who can say?

But this story starts by focusing on the discovery of one and the strange adventure that always leaves someone 'Out of Time'.

Let's see what happens, shall we?

\------------------------------


	2. Going Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce begins his first steps in going back...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know. Another chapter already?  
> Yeah well... that first one is just sad. XD  
> I couldn't leave it there. So I added this one up. It starts ACTUALLY putting things in motion.
> 
> Enjoy <3

He could go back.

It could end up being a blessing in disguise or a curse in the making. Or perhaps, it wasn't real at all.

But all the scans said it _was._

At this point, he was willing to take the risks. He wasn't afraid of the consequences. Not anymore. Not after everything he's been through. A fantastic opportunity lay before him, and he'd be a fool if he didn't jump at the chance to at least attempt to try it.

He could go back. He could see them again.

And that's all it would be. Just to see. That's what he argued with Alfred about and he promised the father-figure that's all it would be. He knew better than to wish for the ultimate outcome. What he truly wanted. To change things. Even though with this new 'power', it would be as easy as a snap...

But then he'd never hear the end of it from Alfred. If Alfred would even remember their conversation from the change at all. Which he most likely wouldn't.

But he couldn't do that to him. Not to the only person he cares about left. It would be a betrayal of trust - even though the butler would have no recollection of it. He himself would. And he couldn't live with such a lie.

However, besides the personal issues, Bruce wasn't ignorant to the dangers of tampering with history. Enough theories have been run on the idea to burn on millions of minds that it would never be a positive experience in the long run. There were risks.

And the way his life was? What a surprise that would be an issue.

"I don't like it," the old butler said, hands clasped behind his back as he stared up at the large computer screens. The data and schematics of the anomaly dominating each one. They flashed the location in pinpoint latitude and longitude, with others trying to do their best in getting a solid reading on the strength and pulses it generated in seemingly sporadic patterns. Another one was single-handedly identifying the type of anomaly and whether or not it was a danger to interfere with.

So far it gave no indication of being hazardous nor phasing out anytime soon. In fact, based on the readings, it appeared to have been here unnoticed for some time now.

Bruce sat in his plush chair facing the screens with Alfred standing to his right, the dark emptiness of the Batcave engulfing them from behind. Bruce looked up at his friend while the light from the data illuminated every detail of his lined face. It made him appear much older than the playboy cared to admit. Or perhaps it was showing him what was already there, but he simply refused to see.

Time was running out for the older man and it frightened him to see it. He sighed out his nose and turned back to the many display screens. He had to force himself to focus on this task at hand.

"I know you don't. But I swear to you Al, I'm not going to do anything drastic. I'll just be an observer who's not getting involved in any major life-changing situations."

Alfred side glanced at him with an eyebrow raised. "Only observing, Sir?"

Bruce glanced back at him but couldn't hold the gaze. He felt himself being analyzed. There were times he hated how well the man knew him. "Well... perhaps squeeze in a handshake or two," he mumbled his confession.

"You already know my thoughts on all of this," Alfred sighed, eyeing the information before them, "so I won't bother to repeat myself - not that it would have any change in your opinion once your mind is set." 

Both Bruce and Alfred turned around when they heard a crash in the distance followed by the sound of a cluster of startled bats flapping into a frenzy. There was no reaction from them when this happened, for this wasn't the first time it has occurred. Stalactites were common in this cave system and having them break off and scaring the living daylights out of the flying residents who dwelled in the tunnels was hardly a surprise to the two men by now. Eventually, all the sound settled back into its usual quietness.

Moments like that reminded Bruce of not only the overwhelming vastness of the cave but also how incredibly alone he felt. All the painful thoughts and memories those moments would bring to him. Bruce knew Alfred felt the same, but more for his ward than for himself. Which explained his tonal difference when he continued with what he was saying.

His voice was soft, "But I do hope you understand the dangers you're unnecessarily putting yourself into." He immediately held up his hand before Bruce had a chance to defend himself for the hundredth time.

"That doesn't mean to say I don't understand why you're doing it, Master Bruce. I would like to believe that you think more highly of me than that."

Bruce gave him a gentle smile and focused his gaze on some of the Butler's buttons. "No, I know that Alfred. And of course, I do. It's because you care and, I love you for it."

He could 'feel' how his words affected Alfred from where he sat. Even if neither of them would admit to it. "But I'm telling you; I'm not going to do anything drastic. What's done is done. I just need to see them," he looked up into the old man's eyes, pleading his point. "Just once."

"Of course I would never stop you from such an opportunity if I could give you one. And, so it would seem, there is." Alfred moved forward and rested a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I only ever worry about you. That will never change."

"I know, Alfred. I know. But I will be careful."

Alfred squeezed his shoulder once then turned to walk over to where the Batsuit and gadgets were kept. "Will you be taking your other suit with you as well, Sir?" His voice echoed throughout the room.

"No. I would have no need for it."

Alfred turned back to face him, both eyebrows raised.

"There's no such thing as Batman back then," Bruce explains, "so there'd be no point to have one roaming around out of the blue suddenly. After all, you're the one that keeps saying that I shouldn't change anything in the past too drastically..."

The older man gave him a look. "I meant it more as a source of protection and or precaution, Sir. You know that."

"Yeah, but I still couldn't resist teasing you a little bit," Bruce smirked as he got up and joined his father figure by his weapons' shelf.

"A bloody smart-ass more like."

Wayne snickered at the comment and started to pick out certain items and laid them out in front of him. "Of course, I'm not dumb enough _not_ to bring some sort of security measures with me."

Alfred sidestepped over to see what he deemed important enough. He picked up a grappling hook Bruce had pulled out and gave the young playboy a questioning eye. "And you believe that swinging around rooftops in the past will not only be something you will need to do but will also go unnoticed?"

"Always better to be safe. You never know," Bruce shrugged with a sly grin as he gently took the grappling hook back from the other man.

He grabbed a duffel bag and began placing the hook inside. Some other items he included in the bag were a few smoke bombs, stun disks, his old throwing stars from when he had almost joined the Legion of Shadows, a fully loaded bat belt, and various sensors. Not to mention whatever Alfred kept tucking away when Bruce wasn't looking.

He started to zip up the bag when Alfred handed him one more thing, "I suppose you'll be needing this as well, then. Might come a bit handy."

Bruce took it and looked it over. It was a small handheld device fitted mainly with a large screen, a small antenna sticking out the top, a few buttons on the front and sides, and weighed surprisingly heavier than it appeared.

His mouth dropped open once he realized what he was holding. He turned to the butler almost speechless, "Alfred... Is this..."

"'The hand-held scanner that will help detect when, where, and how an anomaly will make its presence known', then yes Sir. It is." The older man smiled at him.

Bruce was stunned. "But, I thought we hadn't gotten this ready yet."

"Well, I may have put in an extra word for you to Mister Fox on your behalf to get a move on for it. Which then the urgency of it being completed was amplified."

Wayne was incredibly impressed with him. "Alfred, you old taskmaster you," he teased.

"I have my own ways to get things accomplished, Master Bruce. Besides; you certainly need some way to get back. Finding one may not be as easy as finding another. If the first should vanish, to begin with."

Bruce shook his head, "Alfred. What would I do without you?"

"Oh, that's easy, Master Bruce. You'd be dead."

Alfred's deadpan comments were always unequaled. 

\---------------------

It was around One in the morning when Bruce arrived at the set coordinates. They took him to the outskirts of Gotham. Nestled deep in the woods and to the right of the infamous Slaughter Swamp. 

He hated being out here. The whole area made his blood curdle. It always had a perpetual gloom to it that at any moment one would expect a ghoul to spring out at you and drag you to some unknown hell.

Which, thanks to Grundy, was more true than false.

He took his black Lamborghini for the ride over and had gone remarkably unnoticed. He drove the car as far into the woods as he possibly could then parked it near a grove of trees. He had the handheld device out the whole time to guide him, and now sitting in the car it let him know that approximately thirty feet away was the anomaly he and Alfred had been studying.

The car was quiet. The device beeped softly and the screen lit up his face making his eyes tired. It wasn't far away now. A fantastic opportunity was mere feet away from him...

And yet.

Bruce couldn't get himself to get out of the car. 

He stared at it, feeling empty. Alfred's words running through his mind. Was this really a wise decision? How sure was he that it wouldn't go awry? The point wasn't exactly selfish, but the risks of a mistake could be cataclysmic. 

Then again, when were they not?

Bruce took a deep breath and held it, closing his eyes. He released it after a while and calmly repeated it a couple more times. He focused on his heartbeat. Centered his mind. And somehow, miraculously, convinced himself it was going to be alright.

He exited the car and froze halfway getting out. The overwhelming silence around him was oppressive. No birds. No insects. No wind.

Dead quiet.

He stood and listened for any signs of life. Nothing came. All that was heard was the sounds of his own breathing and the crunch of leaves wherever he stepped. Slamming the car door made him flinch. The sound was amplified in the stillness. He did his best to suppress any urge to climb back into the car and just drive the hell away and instead continued to open the backseat door - albeit gently - and remove his duffle bag. This time he was careful in shutting it.

\--Before he had left the manor, Alfred - ever the watchful parent - reminded him that unless his goal was to blend in as a hobo and see his parents that way, it was best to grab a couple of sets of clothes and a few toiletries. 

God. He really would be dead without him.--

He moved to the front hood of the car and fished around in his pocket. He pulled out a small round disk with a sticky backing and stuck it to the top of the hood. He pressed a series of buttons on it then stepped away.

The disk let out a series of increased beeps until it culminated in one long tone. Moments later the disk flashed, and the Lamborghini flickered a few times until it phased out of sight entirely. 

With a satisfied sigh out of his nose, Bruce slung the bag over his shoulder, held up the handheld device once more and followed its direction to where he needed to go.

~~~***~~~

It took him sooner to get there than he thought. And he discovered he didn't need the device as much as he thought at this point. When he got to it, he couldn't believe what he saw.

The anomaly was _beautiful_. A gentle blue of swirls with a bright light that shone directly in the center. It made not a sound and moved as if it was underwater. Bruce felt himself hypnotized by the way it danced around.

From everything that he had studied off it (which, admittedly, wasn't much) it seemed that for it to work all he had to do was walk towards it and simply touch it.

Would it hurt? Would nothing happen? Would it kill him?

Frankly, he didn't know the answer to that. And he hid those inquiries from Alfred. Because he was determined to try this no matter what.

"Sorry Alfred," Bruce sighed. And took the few steps closer to the swirling mystery, hand outstretched and suddenly felt his mouth run cotton dry.

Oh, God. Was this a mistake?

\----------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I just want to drop a line here that although the next two chapters are finished I'm going to post Ch.2 (technically 3) when I post up Ch.5 on Wattpad. Gotta motivate me somehow ya know. 
> 
> (The next chapter introduces Arthur, btw. If anyone cares to know in advance.)


	3. What Do You Want?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce makes it to the past and oh! Who is this...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I know I said I was going to wait till I finished the other chapter, but I felt cruel making everyone wait to see Arthur before that happened. Since it was done already, so here it is <3

The change happened in an instant - then Bruce didn't know where he was.

Everything was white. 

No floor - yet he _stood_ on something solid. There was no ceiling or walls. Just nothing. The space he found himself standing in - at least, Bruce _assumed_ he was standing considering he was vertical - was devoid of all substance and matter. Including sound. He was literally in a void of white.

It wasn't oppressive there. Neither was it stifling. He could 'breathe' normally. It didn't feel like anything. Neither hot or cold. It just... simply existed.

So. This was what it was like inside this particular anomaly. Very curious.

It was a strange place. Bruce wasn't afraid. In fact, he felt nothing. Just like the space he was in. All the same, he clung onto his duffle bag strap for stability. Mostly to remind himself that he really was here. Wherever 'here' was.

For the briefest of moments, Bruce feared that he would never be able to find his way back home - in either direction he was headed. That he would be stuck in this barren world of white with no possible way of escape. He and Alfred never figured out what would happen once inside the anomaly, so now Bruce was treading in unknown waters.

Nevertheless, he knew better than to let doubt conquer him at a time like this. He had to focus. It would do him no good at this point to sink into despair when he's gotten this far. All that was left for him at this point was to keep moving forward. To find out how to get out of where he was.

For there _had_ to be a way. There always was a way.

Bruce studied his surroundings. It was evident he was the only one here. He turned around slowly in a circle but saw nothing but whiteness in every direction - including above and below. 

He let out a heavy sigh and felt a pang of agitation. He considered walking forward until something different would happen. But he had a strange feeling that that was a waste of time. 

Suddenly, an idea sparked into his mind. There was a considerable chance it wouldn't work, but what had he to lose for trying?

Bruce closed his eyes and did his best to clear his mind. He breathed in and out in calm breaths, then began to fill his mind with only one thought. Just one.

His parents, alive and well, and back with him when he was innocent. Back before all of the horrors that were about to befall him. Back when he was truly happy.

There was a soft _thud_ in front of him. When he unclosed his eyes, he was surprised to see a door now placed in front of him. There was nothing special about the door. Nothing decorated or written on it. Just had a simple handle and that was it.

There was a small part of Bruce that was disappointed in the lackluster moment of it all. He didn't know what to expect, but he had hoped for more. Considering how much this meant to him.

When nothing else happened, Bruce took a few hesitant steps toward it. He reached it without an issue; neither he nor the door disappeared. Not that he envisioned it to.

With nothing else to do or go on, Bruce reached out and gripped the handle. It felt normal. Was even room temperature. 

He took a deep breath, turned the knob - which he found out was unlocked - and with a thrill he didn't want to acknowledge so soon, he pushed the door open.

It swung wide with little to no effort with a blinding light that caused him to gasp and filled his mind for several seconds...

~~~***~~~

Bruce nearly doubled over from the foul stench that hit him.It invaded every sense he had, disorienting him. Making his mind swirl. For a moment he didn't know who he was, what he was or even _where_ he was. 

The playboy sucked in deep for air - which was a huge mistake. The gulp was sour in taste and made his stomach churn violently. He stumbled blindly with an arm out till he felt a wall, lurched forward and dry-heaved before he could stop himself.

He leaned all his body against the hard surface as he did his best to control his gag reflex. His eyes burned when he tried to open them. Tears were forming. 

He pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and it helped only a little. But it did the job well enough for him to be able to steady his breathing, as it worked like a thin filter to give him a chance to grow accustomed to the onslaught enough to straighten and observe his general surroundings. He kept one hand on the wall as he looked about.

Where the _hell_ had he ended up?

The surroundings were, startlingly, familiar. Subconsciously the stench was too. But for the moment Bruce couldn't place them. He was shocked - and quite justly - distracted by the overwhelming piles of garbage that littered the streets and sidewalks in every possible direction he looked. There were near inhumane amounts that were practically comical in there size and mass. It was beyond ridiculous. Bruce had never seen a city in such filth.

That's when recognition settled in. He knew exactly where he was. _When_ he was. He remembered this awful time. This horrid place...

Was Gotham. 

The dated cars, the lack of cell phones, the current fashion sense and - he couldn't believe it - quite a few shops he vaguely remembered from the past all pieced together for Bruce that the anomaly worked. It was Gotham. But from days gone by. He had made it to the past successfully.

As he stood in a dumbfounded silence taking everything in, something darted passed his leg. Naturally, his first instinct was to kick at it. Instead, he jumped back in surprise as a small cat-sized rat scurried past him and darted into one of the many piles of trash close by.

That was it. Now was the time to keep moving. 

Bruce was only vaguely aware that he had been dragging his bag around till now. He slung it over his shoulder - praying it didn't smell as bad as he thought it did - and did his best to blend in with the other pedestrians. He pulled his shirt down off his face to achieve the full effect, much to his dismay. 

Everyone around him appeared to be immune to the stench or had simply learned to grow used to it. He would have to as well. His stomach gurgled in retaliation to the disgust but he knew he'd been through worse. He would just have to adapt. As awful as that sounded.

He and Alfred had planned out in advance that _if_ it worked, he would go to the nearest hotel and spend the rest of his time there until he achieved his goal... and more importantly - to the butler, anyway - found a way to get back. Alfred, of course, insisted - for safety sake - that Bruce stay at one of the best Gotham had to offer. Bruce told him he'd make no promises but would do the best he can.

They weren't lackadaisical when it came to this 'time travel' thing. They did their best to work out every detail that they could control. Such as Bruce's money situation. The amount was not the issue. They both agreed he would carry cash in various bill sizes. What they _worked_ on, was that each bill would be from about the late seventies downward. His parents died in 1981, so as long as the bills had a year less than that, it wouldn't raise any suspicion. 

Blending in was a thousand times easier than it had ever been for the billionaire playboy before. For the very first time, _no one_ knew who he was. In this period, Bruce Wayne was a little child coddled by his parents in the safety of an enormous mansion. Mostly cut-off from the rest of the world. Not an adult orphan who was a playboy during the day and a freak vigilante at night. 

Who would ever believe that the adult version would be wandering around the streets free-as-you-please at the same time as the child?

There was an unexplained relief nobody knew him that Wayne hadn't realized he felt until he was just like another member of the crowd. It was... refreshing. Freeing. A small gift he had been given that he would make the most of for as long as he was here.

As Bruce continued to walk and try desperately to keep the contents of his stomach in check, he found himself people-watching. Out of habit? Probably. But he was more fascinated that the Gothamites here weren't much different than the ones back home. Overly busy. Self-absorbed. With more than half of them with a look of regret etched over their face. 

Ah, Gotham. Home-sweet-home.

Bruce was finding himself getting lost in his idle musings that he didn't notice the man yelling somewhere behind him. Just as it registered, Bruce was bumped to the side and watched as two men ran past him, one clearly chasing the other. The one who was pursuing kept shouting words like _'Stop!', 'Give it back!',_ and _'Hey!'_ while the other bolted off with a brown bag in his hands. Not slowing down one iota. 

This was nothing Bruce hadn't seen before. He dealt with this sort of thing on a nightly basis. What gave him pause and caught him clenching his teeth in anger, was the fact that _no one_ reacted to the man's cries of distress. An occasional glance in their general direction, but otherwise everyone just went about their daily lives. Ignoring it all. They didn't even bother to move out of the way as the two skirted around them.

It was as disgusting as the trash littered about. 

Quick as a flash, Bruce's instincts kicked in. He ran after the two retreating forms and let his mind play a chess game with the runner in the front. It wasn't hard. From years and years of practice with other villains, a simple thief who wasn't used to Batman was preschool to decipher. 

It also helped that Bruce knew the streets of Gotham better than he knew his social security number.

Based on where the man was headed, Bruce knew exactly where he was running off to. It was a predictable route many criminals had used before in order to lure their victims in and then make an attack against them unnoticed. 

The vigilante already turned into the previous alley in order to cut them off. He knew how this worked, and how to justly time it. As he ran he unzipped his duffle bag and reached in to grab his grappling hook. Once out, he glanced about to see if anyone was watching him. Surprisingly, no one was. There weren't any people in this alley either. A lucky break, he supposes. 

Bruce aimed the hook at the roof on the building to his left and fired. It found its mark and he was instantly flung up into the air. He grabbed the edge and swung himself and the bag over with trained ease and continued to make a mad dash to the other side of the building and looked down. 

_Perfect._ He saw them both rushing down the alleyway below with the one man still yelling for the other to stop. That's when he took his advantage. 

Bruce flipped over the side onto a fire escape as they approached. He kicked the stairs out grabbing the first top step of one and pressed all his weight into them to force them to unlink down. He took his bag and with great force threw the bag square at the head of the thief running in front. The collision caught the man off-guard and knocked him over. But it wasn't enough to stop him, only startled. The man was scrambling to his feet just as Bruce slid down the stairs and dropped the rest of the way to the ground. The man had barely registered his presence when Bruce dashed up to him, grabbed the arm that held the bag and twisted it back. The man cried out in pain and swung with his other arm. Bruce didn't wait to see what was in that hand and planted a heavy elbow punch into the offender's shoulder. The man yelped as he fell, grabbing his now injured arm. Releasing the bag. He crawled away from Bruce and being sprier than the playboy thought the guy was, climbed back up to his feet. Bruce shoved him forward enough to get his point across as the man turned around, indignant written all over his face. But Bruce stood his ground, scrounging up every ounce of intimidation he could summon which, of course, worked. 

The thief glanced at Bruce and over the billionaire's shoulder with a growing fear in his eyes, then turned and took off. Leaving the stolen item on the ground near Bruce's feet.

Bruce watched him go, satisfied he wasn't going to return. He bent down, picked up his bag and the stolen one, slung his over his shoulder and turned around to face the other man. And froze.

The man was pointing a gun directly at him.

In an instant, haunting memories flooded his mind of a familiar scenario that included his parents in an alleyway. The same smells. The same recognizable shops. The same... _wait._

Bruce blinked his eyes several times to clear his head and took a good look at the gunman.

_He'd seen him before._

The man was not as tall as he, although for some odd reason Bruce remembers him taller. He was a waif of a man, seemingly held together by skin. His clothes hung on him, yet fitted him just right in certain places. His shoes and trousers were nothing special. None of his attire was. The red vest shirt complimented his dark hair, however. The tan sweater jacket finished off the look in a plain sort of way. His hair was shoulder-length with a hint of bangs. It had a curly wave to it. Besides the color, it reminded Bruce of another certain someone back home - only that one has sloppy colored green hair. And his appeared to be blonde.

But nothing, _nothing_ compared to the man's large, piercing eyes. Alive with fire they were. Wild, uncontrolled light shone from their depths. They mixed with an agony and loneliness Bruce knew all too well. The eyes were overwhelmingly expressive. As if the man didn't know or understand that he was showing everything he ever felt or wanted out of them. Baring himself naked at all times.

Bruce was mesmerized by them. He couldn't even fully tell what color they were. They appeared to be changing right in front of him as quickly as the man's emotions were. One moment they were green, the next blue, then to a dark stormy blue. There was even a point Bruce could have _sworn_ they went flat gunmetal grey on him. For a hysterical moment, Bruce entertained the thought that this man wasn't human. Wouldn't have been the first time he thought that about someone...

The man was wary of him, Bruce was receptive enough to notice that. But even more than wary, bruce could sense the gunman was _confused_ by him. As if he had walked in on something he wasn't supposed to see, and now didn't know what to do about it. 

The gun he held never wavered. But the intent behind it seemed to. A kaleidoscope of emotions transitioned over the man's face in a matter of seconds and it was incredible to watch it dance across his eyes as the other man tried to figure out not only what he was supposed to do now, but _how_ he was supposed to feel. 

The struggle was clear, and Bruce thought it was best to somehow get the man to snap out of his internal war and focus back on him. At least enough to get the man to lower the weapon.

Bruce raised his arms slowly on either side of his head, still holding the handbag. The man's eyes followed it. "Hey, woah now. Careful where you point that thing. It might go off."

Bruce kept his voice calm and collected. The other man locked eyes with him and bore an intensity so great that it verged on invasive. It sent a strange chill down the vigilante's spine.

"What do you want?" the man said low and with an edge to it.

Bruce blinked. He... wasn't expecting to be asked that question. Usually, when he saved someone the sort of things thrown at him were around the lines of _'who are you?', 'where'd you come from?', 'thank you for saving my life!'_ or some quaint little sarcastic quip to lighten the situation. Not. _This._

This threw him off a bit. 

"I... I don't want anything," Bruce told him honestly.

"Bullshit."

Alright. This was not going well. Wayne trained his gaze on the barrel of the gun when the man shifted it a tad in his hand. It was aimed perfectly at his chest, and the man was several feet away. Just far enough that Bruce could most likely dodge it and knock the gun from his hand... but.

Something told him that that wasn't the thing to do here. So he continued to talk his way out of it. If he could. 

He figured it wouldn't hurt to explain himself. "All I wanted to do was help. I saw you in trouble and-- "

"Everybody always wants _something,"_ the gunman interrupted. His voice growing angry. "Nobody does anything for somebody else without a reason. A 'catch' to it. So what's yours? What do you want from me?! _As if you people haven't taken enough!"_

Bruce inwardly flinched as the man practically screamed the last part at him. The rage had a potency to it, filling the space between them in no time at all. The air crackled with it. Bruce felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

This man was absolutely not normal.

He thought it best to change tactics and simply give the man back what was his.

"Listen. This is yours, right? It belongs to you?" Bruce raised the handbag slightly in the air for emphasis. He waited till the other man gave a slight nod of agreement before he continued. "Well, I'm just going to set it down right here, really slow."

Bruce kept one arm raised and lowered the other to the ground, never taking his gaze away from the other man. The pistol followed him down. Neither one blinked. 

Once on the ground, Bruce straightened up and took a step or two back, "And now I'll move away and let you take it. As I said; the only thing _I_ wanted, was to help."

Wayne left his arms raised. Once again, the lanky man looked at him completely at a loss as to what to do. His large eyes darted around. He took careful steps forward all while glancing back at Bruce than to his own bag now sitting on the asphalt. 

When the man looked down and crouched Bruce felt a strange thrill. He hadn't noticed before, but from this angle, it was incredibly clear. The man had the longest eyelashes the playboy had ever seen. And it was obvious they were real. He could think of half a dozen women who would be ranting in jealousy about how wasted they were to be on a male.

Then he chastised himself for thinking about such idiotic things at a time like this. Or even in the first place. _Jesus Christ._

Bruce snapped out of his thoughts at the first sound of the man snatching up the brown handbag to cling to his chest, straightening back up and stepping away once more. Gun pointed out as ever.

He watched the man hesitantly scan the contents of the bag and frown. He flicked those eyes of his back up to meet Bruce's with brows knitted.

"Everything's in there."

"Okay. That's great to hear," Bruce stated matter-of-factly. Was that suppose to be a problem? Was Bruce missing something?

For the first time since Wayne got a good look at the man, he lowered the pistol a little.

"You... you really only wanted... to help?" It came out as a strange question. As if the other wasn't necessarily asking Bruce for an answer. In fact, it seemed he wasn't talking to Bruce at all. More like he was trying to sort things out in his mind for better clarification and understanding. 

The man's face suddenly relaxed. His eyes sparkled with a new glow that sang of one emotion; adoration. Bruce couldn't help it - it sent a shock down his system to places he refused to acknowledge. It was _so very strange._ The man smiled brightly and finally lowered the gun to his side.

His voice was soft when he spoke next. "You really only wanted to help me. No one's ever wanted to help me. Not without something to gain from it."

That twisted something wrong in Bruce, but he made sure not to show it. 

"Well. There's a first time for everything," he smiled, lowering his arms.

The thinner man let out an odd, high chuckle and cast his eyes to the ground. It made Bruce feel very uncomfortable.

The other looked back up to him with a new sense of vigor - energy bubbling out of him in waves - and Bruce watched relieved as he pocketed the pistol in his jacket and then extended out a hand, taking a step forward. His smile was as bright as the sun. 

"My name's Arthur. Arthur Fleck. And I can say I'm really glad to have met you, uh...?"

Bruce looked dumbly down at the hand for a moment. His detective skills kicked in and couldn't help but notice the stains on his fingers. The man was a smoker. A chain-smoker to be more precise. 

So. A man with an addictive personality. Just great. How do they always find him?

Bruce stuck out his hand and firmly shook the one offered. The contact felt surprisingly pleasant.

"Bruce. Bateman." He had to lie. Obviously. Couldn't be a Wayne, and Batman was out of the question. It would do.

At the sound of his name, the other man--Arthur's face lit up. He seemed to melt under the billionaire's very nose.

 _"Bruce,"_ he muttered with deep affection, "You're the second Bruce I've met this week."

"I suppose it's a rather popular name."

"No, not really." It came out in a dreamy way. He glanced down and they both noticed their hands were still clasped. They released each other and Bruce tried to clear his throat. 

Arthur put his hand behind his head and occasionally peeked up at the playboy. "Say uh, Bruce? Did you say that you were from around here?"

"No, I didn't." That put his senses on alert. Was that a trick question? Why did he feel a sudden need to be on guard? But if it was, he figured it was best if he played dumb. So he quickly added, "But I know of the area. I was actually on my way to a hotel to stay for a few days or so for the time I'll be spending here."

Was he giving too much away to a stranger? Shit. He made a slip-up, didn't he? That wasn't like him.

Whatever it was, it encouraged Arthur to press further on some subject while pointing a finger behind him back out to the street. 

"Well, you know... I have an apartment nearby, and since my mother is currently in the hospital there's a lot more room there if you'd like to stay someplace. Rent-free? I mean, it's the least that I can do to repay you for helping me," it came out a bit stiff and quiet as if Arthur wasn't used to talking to someone and inviting them to something else. 

His eyes darted around some and he tucked a hand in his jacket pocket. One hand ran nervously through his hair.

But he kept smiling. "I know. You're probably thinking, 'how can I trust this guy? I just met him!' Well, the same goes for me too, pal. I mean, for all I know you could be some kind of serial killer or something! But I'd still do it." He laughed as he spoke some of that and even altered his voice as if to try to mimic a terrible rendition of Bruce.

But, once done, the skinny man waited expectantly for Bruce to answer him.

Which again, made the vigilante feel uneasy. "Uhh," was all that he muttered. All of his internal alarms were screaming at him that this was the worst idea he could possibly do. That he should politely decline and continue his walk to a hotel of his choice. Just as he and Alfred had planned. This man was not well, and it was best to keep his distance from him if he didn't want to risk altering the future somehow.

Not that he knew what would happen if he stayed with him, if it would turn out negative at all.

But before he could, Arthur's entire demeanor changed like a light switch turning off. All his brightness and sunny disposition were suddenly sucked back inside of the man and the light in his eyes just shut off. His smile vanished, and he blinked and reacted as if he had been slapped.

Arthur frowned and shook his head, bringing a hand up to touch his forehead. "You know what? Forget it. It-it's stupid. I... nevermind. Forget it." And with that, he spun on his heel and swiftly walked away. Mumbling to himself all the while.

The whole thing felt like a massive whiplash to Bruce. One moment the man was as warm and inviting as the day is long, and the next he shut down and disintegrated in front of him. Part of him said that this was for the best and he should just let this happen. He would be vastly better off. He didn't know the man. History was probably safer for it. This whole confrontation was off from the beginning just because he helped him didn't mean the other was obligated to do a single thing in return. Hell, Bruce didn't want him to do anything in return. That's not how these things work. Not here.

But more than any other reason, if Bruce was going to be completely honest with himself...

The truth was he didn't want Arthur to go away. For reasons he couldn't explain, he felt connected to him. He didn't want to be separated from the slimmer man so soon after finding him again.

Afterall. Didn't he feel like he met the man once? 

He had to find out where he'd seen him before. _Curiosity killed the cat..._

"Hey, Arthur?" Bruce called out before the other could get very far. The lanky man - thankfully -stopped and turned to look back at him, a dead, empty look in his eyes.

"How comfortable is your couch?"

Arthur's eyes lit up once again and had a big bright smile to match with it.

\---------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAH! Forgot to mention it was looooong! Hope that was okay? I have a tendency to ramble on when writing.
> 
> Anywho. THere's our Arthur. Lemme know what you guys think so far. I really hope it's in character and also sounds good :/
> 
> NOW I'm off to work on ch. 5.


	4. This Is A Bad Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is having serious second thoughts about staying with Arthur...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> It dawned on me today how stupid it was to have this chapter ahead on Wattpad and not on here, so I figured I'd just put it up here for the hell of it. Still working on them first over there, but now that it's caught up it's no longer unfair XD
> 
> So here's the latest up-to-date chapter that's finished. Enjoy.

The walk to the apartment complex was an interesting one for a multitude of reasons. 

One; it gave Bruce a chance to become more acclimatized with the current time period's diversity from his own. (Most importantly, the smell. Which made him never want to eat again. He was absolutely positive that his lungs and stomach were traumatized for life.)

Two; it was a trip down 'Memory Lane' as they say. There were buildings and stores either just dying out, starting up, or in the prime of their existence that no longer stood in the Gotham he knows. It was bittersweet to see them again and left a pain in his heart by how much he had actually forgotten about from his childhood.

Three; it gave him a bit of time to think about his walking companion and the sure most regrettable decision he made in accepting to stay with this clearly unbalanced stranger. It wasn't his proudest moment, and he hopes to God Alfred never finds out otherwise he'll never hear the end of it.

And quite frankly, he wouldn't blame him. He was already chastising himself for it the moment he called out to the other man in order for him to turn around. He should never have done that. All of this was a terrible idea. There were no pros but an endless list of cons for deciding to camp down in some unknown's living space. 

Call him paranoid, but Bruce already felt like every step he took he sensed that he was destroying reality as he knew it.

Arthur was speaking to him again, "Is this normal for you?" he asked with hands in his pockets, the brown bag dangling off one arm. So far his focus up until now has been either on the ground in front of him or staring intensely at whatever part of Bruce's face that was turned his way. He let him stare - his mind had been on other things. 

_However._

The billionaire could tell that this was something that he wasn't going to drop any time soon, and he himself was _not_ going to get used to it soon enough. 

"I'm sorry, normal for what?" The question had come right out of the blue, and although Bruce hadn't been paying much attention to the man next to him the guy also wasn't the most talkative person to be around. This was the first either of them had spoken in some time.

Arthur gives a haphazard gesture around them, "To, you know. Save people and stuff."

"You mean, like have I done it more than once?" Bruce considers his answer after a pause, "You could say that, yeah."

"Why?"

Bruce shrugs. "Because I _want_ to help people."

Arthur stares at him. He doesn't say anything, just studies his face with those eyes of his. Bruce begins to feel that the other man doesn't believe him. Like he can't understand the existence of a human being who would genuinely go out of his way for the sake of others. 

That notion makes Bruce feel sick. 

"That seems odd." Arthur looks straight ahead again.

Bruce wanted to laugh at that. _"That's_ odd? You think that's odd? Says the guy who stares at me like I'm a piece of steak and he's starving." Oh, _Christ._ Did he just say that out loud? 

Unsurprising, that got an immediate reaction from Arthur. But once again, not the one the billionaire was expecting.

The skinnier man looked as if he wanted to laugh but couldn't. Or perhaps was suppressing it. His eyes danced all over Bruce with increased fascination. Bruce couldn't understand; the man didn't seem the least bit insulted or bothered by the comment. 

In fact, he seemed to be drawn to him more. Increasing the hunger. Bruce felt a need to change the subject before he got pulled into something he would add to his already increasing 'regret' list. 

Their walk continued at a casual pace. 

"Can I ask you something?" he questioned the other man gently. 

"Uh-oh!" Arthur said aloud, looking around. Smiling. When Bruce didn't respond to it, the man looked back down. "Okay." 

"Why do you have a gun?" It was a fair question. For his own safety he needed to know why the man was armed. 

"Ohh, it's not mine."

An alarm bell went off in Bruce's head. His detective mode kicked in, and before he was even aware that the words rattled out of his mouth his Batman-side asked:

"Whose is it? Did you steal it?"

Arthur stalled mid-step. It barely lasted a moment before he moved on--but in that time Bruce felt an intense rage spike off of him then disappear just as quickly. Like the equivalent of a gunshot. It struck a quiet fear in him that asking such a question was _not_ the right thing to do with this man.

So he tried to backtrack to the first question and rephrase. 

"Whose is it, Arthur? Where did you get it?"

This time he answered without a flare-up, "It's Randall's." 

"Randall? Who's Randall? A friend of yours?"

Arthur barked out an unnerving laugh. It sounded forced and unnatural. The glint in his eyes told Bruce that _'friend'_ was the wrong description for this person. Whoever this 'Randall' was, was a touchy subject for the underweight man. Bruce filed this information in the back of his mind for future reference. Just in case.

But Arthur didn't correct him or challenge the question in any way. In fact, when Bruce thought back on it later, the man never answered him fully to begin with.

Instead, Arthur told him something that made him feel uncomfortable.

"Randall tells me I'm his boy."

"His _'boy'?"_ It came out a bit more dramatic than he meant, but Bruce didn't know what the hell that was supposed to mean. There was an implication there that felt veiled and Bruce wondered if perhaps Arthur was telling a stranger too much of his personal life.

"Mmhmm. He always says I'm his boy. At least that's what he keeps telling me."

Not knowing the situation - and truly not wanting to let his mind trail down such a dark path - Wayne kept his response on the friendlier side, "He must really care about you." 

Arthur's answer was that phony laugh. Again. With his head thrown back this time.

"Why is that funny? He obviously gave it to you to protect yourself, right?"

A police siren rang off in the distance. An argument a couple of blocks down echoed through the streets and alleys to where they currently were. As usual to the city, no one reacted to it. Bruce wasn't sure if Arthur's silence was due to him listening to the bickering or him thinking over the question he'd asked him. 

Whatever it was, he stayed quiet for a while. Bruce wondered if perhaps he should say something even if just to change the subject.

"He gave it to me after I got beat up one too many times," Arthur spoke up finally. His voice was low. "He said it was so I wouldn't get fucked. What do you think?" 

Arthur took a side-step closer to Bruce - invading his space - and locked eyes with him. His stare was invasive as he spoke the next words, "Should I have it, or should I get fucked?"

It was as if all sound dropped. Bruce forgot to breathe. The meaning those words held were hardly subtle. It was up to Wayne to decide whether to take them at face value... or the innuendo he smothered it with. _Did he just hit on me?_

The heat that rose in his face when Arthur remained deadpan through it all only made his arresting gaze thousand times more powerful. It zapped a shock down his spine and held it there with a strange buzzing sensation.

A solid mass slammed into him which startled Bruce out of his trance. He caught himself from stumbling over and seized the thing that hit him. He was shocked and embarrassed when he realized it was another Gothamite that he had carelessly walked into.

"Oh! Excuse me, sorry," he did his best to apologize. Luckily, it was a lady that was fully taken in by his disarming charms to be upset and gave a flirty 'That's alright!' in return. 

Bruce turned to Arthur and noticed the man was watching the woman walk away behind them with disinterest. He didn't seem to care at all about what happened. No reaction. Not even a chuckle at Bruce's expense for the awkwardness that he 'technically' set him up into. In fact, when he glanced back to the playboy before focusing on ahead he didn't acknowledge that anything that had just transpired happened. Not even a trace of the 'suggestion' he started with left anywhere in his character.

It gave Bruce a mental case of whiplash, and he couldn't help but worry how often this sort of change happens with this singular person.

Arthur taps Bruce on the arm, "Here. We go this way," he states as he points to an ungodly amount of stairs leading up. As he starts ascending, he can't help but think he'd have easily avoided all of this if he'd just gone to a hotel. It was not too late, he thought. He could still make a run for it and all would be better for it.

And yet onward he trudges.

Arthur walks ahead of him with surprising ease. After ten or twelve steps up he suddenly gasps and whips around to Bruce with wide eyes. His whole demeanor has changed once more.

"Oh hey! Do you watch the Murray Franklin show? My mother and I watch it every night. We never miss an episode. I love it, it's my favorite! We could watch it together if you'd like? He has some pretty interesting people on tonight. I remember him saying from yesterday who was coming..."

He continues to rattle on, never giving Bruce a chance to speak up. The billionaire was fine with this, on account he was more absorbed in what Arthur was _doing_ instead of saying. He continued to walk up the stairs but did so backward now. He would also on occasion twirl in a circle while ascending, hands still planted in his jacket pockets. He never stumbled, tripped, or took a misstep the whole time they were on those stairs.

Bruce had never seen anyone so graceful before. The smaller man moved as if this was second nature to him. It was remarkably beautiful to watch. Like a personal dance that was only on display for Bruce and no one else. He'd never seen anything like it and knew he was smiling in response to it.

The only other time he could think that was close to something like this was when he caught the Joker back home falling UP the stairs once when he was in pursuit. He thought that was impressive then. 

Not once did Arthur seem aware of what he was doing or even of his surroundings. He just got so involved talking about a passion he loved from out of the blue to Bruce that to him seemed to be the only thing worth concentrating on.

He didn't really ask what Bruce liked. Or what his hobbies were. It gave the vigilante an understanding that he must not do small talk all that much. Or, ever. Again, this was fine. For as the man spoke it continued to give Bruce an opportunity to doubt himself and dread every step he made forward.

With a sickening feeling in his stomach that happened all too soon, Arthur gestured to a building to the right of them and stated that this was it. The apartment complex. A dreary brown fortress of a building in a sad decrepit part of Gotham. 

Oh God. Great. 

Bruce didn't know what else the hell he expected. At least something a bit more held together than _this._ It made his agreement to go along with this even worse. All evidence was pointing to the contrary that this was a bad idea yet he _kept following the man._

It had a strange resemblance to Arkham Asylum that he couldn't quite place, or figure why he thought that. They didn't exactly look the same, and yet...

All of it increased his inner voice kicking his skull around to try to knock his common sense into gear. _Take these images as a sign, you idiot! What kind of detective are you?!_

The front entrance had a triple stone archway with a single blazing light above the middle one. An open court space laid in front with a lonely chair in the left corner littered with - of course - trash. It looked rarely used for any activity; besides the typical, illegal nightly kind. The front door itself had another archway before it with yet another outside light. All in all, the place felt abandoned.

Arthur used his key to get into the building and held the door open for Bruce. There was nothing exceptional about the main floor. As he entered nausea hit him. This was wrong. He felt trapped. His mind seemed to be giving up on him as his body kept moving onward. After a few steps in did he notice Arthur wasn't next to him anymore. He turned and saw the other had stopped near the mailboxes - which were strangely surrounded by bars - and was staring at them. He didn't go to them. Just sort of... glared at them. Like he resented their existence. 

Bruce had no idea what was going on. He was lost as to what he should do now, already wanting to run. "Hey uh. Arthur? Is something wrong?"

"Yep," the other answered. Then he turned to Bruce with a smile and walked on to where the elevator was sitting.

That unnerving answer caused Bruce to be quiet for the rest of the ride up. He was already on pins and needles with this whole thing, and that didn't help at all. If Arthur spoke to him during the trip up, he doesn't remember. The elevator ride was lost to him. 

He should have paid attention to what floor they would be on. But he couldn't. He should have noticed how far away the apartment would be from any given exit or fire escape was. But he didn't. He should tell Arthur to fuck off and storm right out of the building. But he wouldn't. He should have done _something_. 

But all he was, was a zombie marching his way to a trap he was willingly going into. _Wake up, Bruce. What the fuck is wrong with you?_

Suddenly, he hit a wall. Not a real one. But a wall in which he couldn't move anymore. His mind shut down. Dread washed over him. Alfred's voice and disappointment were blasting over his psyche. His stomach dropped and he knew at this moment that clarity was telling him to leave. He came for his parents. What was he doing here? 

_Go to a hotel. Leave now. Everything will be alright if you **leave now.**_

A loud _snap!_ startled him back to his senses. Standing in front of him was Arthur, one of his hands hovering by Bruce's face in a type of fist. He lowered it and smiled once Wayne's eyes settled on him. "Ah, there you are. You went away for a minute or two. I hope it was somewhere nice." His voice was fragile.

Bruce blinked several times and took in his surroundings. Apparently, they had reached the front of their destination. Bruce was still standing in the hallway with the door of the apartment wide open. Arthur stood in the entrance waiting anxiously for the vigilante to most likely come inside.

His heart was pounding in his ears. This was ridiculous. "I'm sorry. I can't do this," he _finally_ said out loud and turned to leave. 

"Wait, what?"

He was going to take fast wide strides to get to the elevator and out of here. Not once looking back, tuning out whatever the man had to say. Sadly, Bruce didn't get three steps before being gripped by a remarkably strong force to his arm and yanked back. He ripped himself free of it instantly and took a wide step back to face Arthur, knowing full well it was no one else.

"Where are you going?! Why are you leaving now!?" a desperate Arthur screams. Bruce is taken off-guard by the rapid-fire emotions being shot at him; hurt, frantic, confused, angry, and for some reason, betrayed.

"You came all this way up here only now to walk away?! Why?! _What is with you?! Why are you doing this?!?_ I thought you wanted to _help_ people! Not-not--!!"

Suddenly Arthur doubles over and begins to laugh. Well, Bruce thinks it's laughing. It has the general essence of laughter. Only... It's absolutely _raked_ in _pain._ It's loud and unrestrained, dripping with agony. The more he listens to it the more it sounds like crying. He grabs his stomach with claw-like hands as the bellowing continues.

The sound is heart-wrenching. Reaching down to rip at Bruce's soul by the roots without mercy. It held him captive to where he stood and only made it worse when Arthur tried to straighten up and breathe.

He couldn't.

Arthur was choking. One hand went to his throat as he gasped for air that was evading him. When some finally broke through it sucked in as a rasping wheeze that made the poor man wince. He tried to gulp more air but another sob of laughter burst forth.

Arthur caught Wayne's gaze and the hero was speechless. Tears were beginning to run down his gaunt features. He looked completely broken.

Unable to breathe properly and incapable of continuing this conversation any further, Arthur gave Bruce one more grief-stricken glare than swiped a hand in the billionaire's direction to indicate he was done with him. Then he turned around, stormed into his apartment and slammed the door shut.

From where Bruce stood, he could still hear the haunting laughter coming from behind the door.

He didn't know what happened. And he didn't know how long he stood planted to that spot. He was grateful when his body took over and started to make its way to the elevator as he intended. But with less fervor. He was free to leave officially forthwith. All will go the way it should be.

Standing in front of the elevator doors now. Finger hovering over the down button.

And he couldn't. Fucking. Do it.

Bruce closed his eyes and curled his index finger back to make a tight fist. He was clenching his teeth so hard it's a miracle they didn't crack. He had been fighting with himself the whole entire time over with how stupid and careless he was being to stay with a random stranger. And now that he has the freedom to leave... all he wants to do is rush back to him.

Why? He doesn't know him. So what if he seems familiar? A lot of people someone runs across can feel that way. What makes this one stand out? He couldn't explain it. Only that it felt the moment after meeting him, every time the other would walk away with the intention of never seeing the other again, a sensation like a bungee chord would squeeze Bruce's stomach to snap him back to the other. He had no idea if Arthur felt the same - fuck, he doubted it. This was insane - but Bruce did. And anyone could burn in hell if they thought the vigilante wasn't going to find out why in the living nightmare - that he calls life - it is so.

Besides, he reasoned with himself, if anything should happen, he was more than capable of taking care of himself. If he can survive Bane, he's more than sure Arthur will not be a problem.

Bruce moves with renewed determination back down the hall. Gripping his bag for strength.

Then stops at the end, and realizes to his embarrassment that he doesn't remember which hallway Arthur's apartment was down. Shit.

He didn't pay attention to the number on the door, nor what direction he was backtracking from. His mind was filled with too much noise to notice. "Goddammit," he grumbles. Left or right. He tries right. 

He stops at the first door on his left - because he's pretty sure the door was on his left - and after a brief pause he knocks. Bruce tries to take a calming breath. The door latch clicks and the whole thing moves. His breath hitches...

And a rather lovely young lady greets him. Not what he was expecting. 

"Yes?" the woman asks guarded.

"Eh, hello." Bruce puts on one of his winning smiles. "Sorry, I'm a bit lost. Do you know by chance which apartment Arthur Fleck lives in?"

The woman frowns at him. "Arthur?"

"Who is it, Mommy?" asks a small voice.

"Nobody, Gigi," the woman turns and answers back into her own place. She faces Bruce again and mouths 'Sorry,' in forgiveness for referring to him as a _nobody._

Bruce smirks and waves it off. She gives him a bright smile and takes a step closer out into the hall. "Now you asked about an Arthur?"

"Yeah. He's pretty thin, hair down to his shoulders. Keeps to himself, I think. He's one of your neighbors?" The playboy gestures with one hand.

The woman chews thoughtfully on her bottom lip and hums. Her eyes light up for a moment, "Oh! The one who lives with his mother?" Bruce nods. She then proceeds to lean further out and points to Bruce's left. "Yeah. I believe he's down the other hallway there. If he's the one I'm thinking of I've seen him come and go from that direction before."

"Do you happen to know which apartment he is?"

"No, I don't. I'm sorry."

Bruce gives her a warm smile all the same, "That's alright. Thank you very much."

"No problem," she beams back at him. He could feel her watching him for a few seconds longer as he walked away before he heard her door close.

He made his way down the other side and tried to recall, or listen for anything familiar. He couldn't hear the laughing anymore. And he cursed himself for honestly not knowing which number he was. But when Bruce reached the first door on his right he got a feeling like a punch to the gut. He couldn't explain it. But he knew this was it.

Gotham's hero faced the door and hesitated before knocking. He took a moment to collect himself, convinced his berating mind to _just fuck it and do it_ and ended up knocking harder on the door than he meant to.

There was silence on the other side. Bruce felt like a fool standing there and contemplated knocking again or just cutting it by taking this as a sign when--

The door opens slowly to a crack, and a brilliant eye watches him close. It opens wider to reveal more of Arthur's face who stares at Bruce both dumbstruck and confused.

"Hi," Arthur's soft voice starts. "You're still here." 

"Yeah," Bruce says. He opens his mouth to say more, stops, and closes it. Tries again. Same result. He sighs and shifts on his feet. Why is he feeling tongue-tied? 

What the hell he thinks, and goes again. "I... I have trust issues. There have been... instances in my past where I've openly depended on others, or in some other way believed in them, and time and time again I've been deceived. It doesn't even matter. Like, how well I know them either. It could be a loved one I've known for years or, like in your case, someone I've literally just met. My trust in others has been _abused._ So. It's not you. It's, it's... it's me. And I'm sorry."

Arthur had stayed quiet for the whole confession. His eyes expressing a vast array of feelings while he listened to it explained to him. It was just incredible how he could do that. Bruce also noticed that the other man gently opened the door more as he went on. He seemed spellbound by what Bruce was telling him. Wayne didn't know why, but the way he looked at him caused a stirring of like butterflies in his chest to explode everywhere.

"You don't deserve to be treated with that lack of respect when you didn't know anything about my own issue. And... you've been nothing but nice so far, and I _did_ agree to have you repay me, so..." Bruce grinned at the last remark which thankfully got a small chuckle from the thin man. "I stayed. And, if you still have a couch available... I'm still open to take it."

That strange, unfiltered wave of adoration that poured out of Arthur toward Bruce returned full force. He blinked those long lashes at him and cast a glance down before he opened the door all the way and stepped aside. Arthur rubbed the back of his neck and gave him a coy smile. 

"Come on in."

\----------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we are so far in the story. How do you think it's going so far? I'm seriously curious to know what everyone thinks.
> 
> I'm intentionally taking my time with it instead of them magically at the apartment cuz I personally wanted to see what the trip to the apartment would be like. Oh also, I plan on extending the Joker movie plot out a bit just so these two can get to know each other better before some of the bigger issues in that film start to happen again. Nothing extreme. Just like... adding days before things happen. Or whatever.
> 
> Anywho. Do tell me what you think and especially if it seems in character or even, really, if you guys like it.
> 
> All in all, thanks for reading to whoever is reading this <3


	5. Apartment Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Bruce, the first time in the apartment with Arthur doesn't go all that well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGH. THIS WAS A BITCH.
> 
> Sorry, it took so long. I worked on it every day but it still wasn't good enough cuz I kept adding shit that I didn't plan on. Spur of the moment stuff. There's tons of that in here, good God....  
> Oh, and it's currently the longest chapter so far. So. Uhh. Enjoy? Hopefully, it's okay... Eesh.

The first thing Bruce observed when entering the apartment was the overpowering smell of cigarette smoke that hung in the air. Funny how he didn't notice it sooner. 

This was also the first time he ever saw Arthur holding a cigarette. He would come to learn that it would _not_ be the last time. By any means.

Arthur shut the door behind Bruce then moves to stand next to him. The freshly burning cancer stick dangling between his lips. Bruce notes Fleck maintains a friendly distance away. There was a brief awkward silence between them.

Arthur broke it, "Would you like a tour of the place?"

"Sure," Bruce smiles.

Arthur moves further into the main living room - which only took about four steps to accomplish - put his cigarette between his fingers and spread an arm out wide. "Here it is." He beams at the billionaire.

Bruce steps in and blinks at the room. That was the tour? Bruce was _more_ than sure now that the unusual man really didn't get many visitors.

It had a dated appearance - which naturally it would. Simple yet comfortable furnishings. Nothing special. It had two large windows with hideous curtains. One had an air conditioning unit placed in it. Most likely not of the best quality for there was a fan nearby as well. There was no particular piece that stood out from the rest of the accouterments. The main focus was the lived-in beige couch and faded brown chair that sat in the middle of the room which faced the old television set. A bedsheet, pillow, and green blanket took over the couch, giving off the clear impression that someone slept there. A floor lamp sat next to the chair, and a cluttered coffee table lay in front of both of the main furniture. The tv was placed in a wooden entertainment center and on top of it sat a VHS player. Typical decorations and nic-nacs adorned around the room for the time period. But with an obvious feminine touch. A no-account table with matching chairs sat planted against a wall almost unnoticed in a corner of the room. That too was littered with various items. A dreary ceiling lamp dangled above it. Something that wasn't as easily seen but felt was that every single surface had a thin layer of tobacco ash lightly dusted on it from excessive use. Otherwise, the place was rather neat and tidy.

Only...

One corner of the room caught Bruce's attention more than anything else as his eyes scanned the wide space. It was in a far back, non-descript corner of the room. Wedged between the two windows and easily overlooked for how unassuming it was. In this corner lay a small light brown dresser with two doors. On top of it what appeared to be a miniaturized chest of drawers. Tan in color. There was a pipe hanging out from floor to ceiling, and draped on it midway was a bland robe. Kiddy-corner to that hung a garish green suit jacket on the wall. Other clothes seemed to be hidden behind it. Random garments of the underwear and sock variety litter the dresser. Some shoved into odd corners. A large bedroom white chest of drawers was placed in the back of the room, somewhat away from the funny little nest of things.

No one had to tell Bruce. The layout said everything. He had a distinct feeling that he didn't even need to see the rest of the home to deduce this outcome correctly: The mother owned the apartment. Arthur barely existed in the living room.

"It's very nice," Wayne says, scanning the room.

The small compliment had a bigger impact than the intention behind it. The long-haired brunette pinned Bruce down with a stare that came in an instant. It was a powerful combination of excitement and pleasure that hit the vigilante into a momentary state of confusion.

Arthur took things at face value it seemed. Bruce made a mental note that he was going to have to be careful what he said around him in the future.

Bruce thought it best to help coax Arthur into continuing a proper tour. "I take it you have a bathroom, or is this the only room you keep?" A little humor didn't hurt.

It took a moment for Arthur to understand the question was partly a joke. He exhales with a sort of laugh once he got it then waggles a finger at the hero. Amusement sparks his eyes as he takes another puff on his cigarette. 

He blows out the smoke and points to a half-wall kitchen window next to them. "The kitchen's over there, next to the front door, and the bathroom is uhm, behind you this way."

Bruce knew where the kitchen was. He literally passed it on his left when he came in. The light from within gave off a strange green tint that only the blind could miss. Arthur pointing it out was a self-explanatory waste of time. But an 'A' for Effort. 

He turns to discover that, yes, there was a small hallway behind him, to which he wanders down after Arthur led the way. They had four doors here. One directly to his right - which was closed and tucked away further down its own minuscule hallway -, another in front of him - also closed - then two on either side, the only ones open to showcase they are rooms of some kind. Bruce let his eyes glimpse into each room, as one does when curious upon entering new territory. All he noted from the room on the left was that it had a large bed with a framed picture or painting above it before Arthur rushes in front of him and slams the door shut tight. He then spins around to face the playboy with his back to it, one hand behind him the other holding the cigarette placed head-level on the door frame.

"You're not allowed to go in that room," Arthur warns him, his gaze steady. "That's my Mother's room. You're sleeping on the couch, remember? Only-only I can be in here."

Bruce was taken a little back. He had no intention of going into that room. He had barely registered that it was a bedroom when Arthur shut it out of his view. 

"Of course," Bruce smiles, doing his best to cut the sudden tension that had filled the hall. He didn't know what sort of people Arthur was used to but the hero now felt a need to express to the other what sort of person he was and was _not._

Barging into people's homes unannounced and trampling wherever he so pleased was hands-down in the category of 'was not'.

Well. Not during the _day,_ anyway.

He gestures for his host to continue, with the same calm friendliness he had been keeping up. And though Arthur did eventually peel himself away from the door - after several weighted seconds of hesitation - The detective in him couldn't help but think that somehow, that reaction of his had a far deeper meaning to it than simple privacy.

Food for thought later.

The room that is a tad further on the right - which screams _PINK TILES_ at him from Mars and back - is obviously the bathroom. Arthur precedes into said room and begins pointing out what each item is and, yes, where they are. Bruce clenches his teeth to not laugh.

"The toilet's over here, and the sink is over there. Oh, and if you want to take a bath the tub is right over on this side and at your full dispense." He pauses, then, "Oh. And the towels are in the linen closet out there to the right. That first door we passed. If you should need one. Anything else I guess, just let me know. I suppose."

Arthur absently drags on his cigarette and scratches his arm with his free hand. He stares at nothing in particular, most likely waiting for Bruce to say something now.

Bruce, for his part, notices the garish colors that clash immediately in the room. Pink, green, orange. And the toilet has a maroon fuzzy cover. Good God, whose colorblind contractor made this bathroom? Naturally, he says nothing. 

There is also a wicker chair in the room with no seatback near the tub. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what that is for.

But even before that, once again something catches the vigilante's eye more than anything else; the fact that a common item is missing where it usually should be.

He points over to the tub, "Hey uhm, Arthur?" The skinnier man looks up. "Where is your shower head?"

Arthur looks at the metal pipe sticking naked out of the wall. Nothing was attached to it. He shrugs, "We don't have one."

 _Well obviously,_ thinks Bruce. But that wasn't what he asked the man. They have shower curtains - two orange ones that matched with _nothing_ \- that can circle the tiled bathtub. 

It was evident how Bruce was going to have to bathe himself while he was here. Oh well. When in Rome and all that...

Bruce takes the surroundings in with a subtle nod and grins. "Alright. Thank you, Arthur. I appreciate this tour you gave me. Your place is... very comfortable."

Just as before, Arthur melts at the compliment. Eyes shining. Bruce swallows and knows he's not up for this right now. He's too tired and grimy from the filth outside. Standing so close to a washing station is too overwhelming a battle that he has no energy to fight. Besides, he could use the alone time to think. He hadn't been alone the moment he ran into the other man. He needs this.

"Well. If you don't mind, I've had a very long day and I could really use a bath right now. So..."

Arthur's smile broadens as he says, "Oh, of course," and he turns and walks out the door. Once Bruce shuts it behind him his shoulders sag from a weight he didn't know he had been carrying. His bag slips easily off his shoulder and plops to the floor. He stares at the pink tiles of the tub for longer than necessary before he sighs through his nose and begins to disrobe.

He sits on the edge of the tub to pull his shoes off followed by his jacket. All his clothes were - how surprising - black or in some other way of a dark shade. His shirt was dark grey but with the abnormal amount of light fixtures in this bathroom it gave off a grungy shade that he didn't care to understand. He lifts it off above his head with ease and sets it down along with his other garment on the chair that was supplied already. He works on the belt and button of his pants planning his steps for the next day when he turns and instinct nearly has him punch Arthur in the face.

 _"Jesus Christ!"_ Bruce yells in surprise, stumbling backward and catches himself before he goes trousers-over-teakettle into the tub. 

For his part, Arthur merely stands there in the middle of the room, silent. A maroon towel is hanging off one arm and an expectant yet patient expression nestles comfortably on his features. The sudden alarm seemingly has no effect on him whatsoever. His cigarette is absent.

Bruce never heard him come in. In fact, the bathroom door is still closed. The playboy feels a spike of anger rush through him but manages to quell it before he asks, "Arthur, what are you doing in here?"

Arthur blinks before answering. "I'm here to help." 

It comes out as if this is the most logical, reasonable answer. Like Bruce should have known about this the whole time. And for understandable reasons, Bruce does not.

"'Help'? I'm sorry, help with what exactly?"

Arthur cracks a timid smile, "Your washing, of course. Don't be shy, it's okay; I always help my mother. I'm really good at it." His eyes are large and bright, and for the first time studying other places on Bruce that are not his face.

Only Wayne's chest is bare, but the way the slender man roves those eyes over every muscle, every scar, make Bruce seem wholly naked before him. Arthur's words make him feel all the more ill at ease. 

He couldn't believe what he just heard either. Did Arthur really just think...? It leaves an acidic taste in his mouth. He _has_ to clear this up and immediately set some kind of boundaries with the man right here, right now.

"Arthur. I don't need help with my bathing regimen," Bruce says carefully, catching his attention. "Okay? I know how to clean myself and can do it perfectly fine all on my own. Thank you all the same."

Arthur's brow furrows, "But--"

"I'm not your mother," Bruce interrupts, "I don't doubt your skills in this, but I actually do know what I'm doing."

Fleck seems to drift off for a moment, staring off at some unknown object just over Bruce's shoulder. The billionaire clocks it under him clearly trying to put this information into perspective. 

Bruce can't imagine how Arthur interprets the message, or what exactly is going on in that head of his, but he sees how his words effected him at least on the outside. And it puts a lump in his throat. 

Arthur's face has twisted all wrong and a kind of horror creeps in. He takes a hesitant step back, drops the towel. "Oh," it comes out barely above a whisper. "I... Of course. How silly of me. I mean-- I..." He rubs his temple harder than what looks comfortable, then spins around and leaves with a slam of the door. He doesn't return.

Bruce Wayne has seen and been through great difficulties throughout his life. Even more so is said for Batman; he's seen the ugly side of everything. But not once - if memory serves him - has he ever felt a stronger, driving force than standing in that foreign bathroom, his feet cemented to the floor, for an anguished need to go home. His _real_ home. The urgency makes him shudder in the now too alien room.

Back in his own time and space, away from all of this mania he didn't sign up for. He didn't mentally prepare for _this._ His prep was different. He had pre-wired his mind for the heavy blow when he - besides the time-period culture shock - would be slugged with reality the moment he sees and hears his parents, alive and well, living blissfully unaware of their soon demise in front of him.

The last thing he needs is to add a possible madman to the mix. His own psyche can't handle both extremes.

Wayne leans over the edge of the tub, his arms holding himself up on the lip. Head bowed. He takes a deep breath in and out. He no longer knows what state of mind Arthur will be in once he steps back into the living room. All he does know is that he's so tired and the chance to bathe still calls to him. 

He checks to see if the bathroom door locks - it does - clicks it secure then proceeds to undress while doing his damndest to get a proper water temperature while filling the tub. He settles for two inches of water and tepid at best. Get in. Clean. Get out. Done.

Not once are his thoughts not focused on his roommate. So much for time alone...

Bruce picks up the towel off the floor, haphazardly dries himself, and throws on whatever comfortable sleeping attire was shoved in the bag. Drags a comb through his hair and sighs with a heavy heart. He takes his time making his way back to the couch.

He treads in, uncomfortable to face the other man so soon. Instantly, he is greeted with a familiar tune and the sounds of sizzling. He sees Arthur standing in the kitchen. The other doesn't notice him right away, so Bruce continues into the main room. The tv has been switched on, fuzzy color screen lighting up the couch before it. It's playing _The Wizard of Oz_. Bruce watches as Dorothy turns around slowly, mesmerized by her exotic surroundings in Munchkinland, _"Toto... I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."_

 _No kidding_ thinks Bruce. He couldn't agree with her more. 

Bruce stops next to the couch and drops his duffle bag by the foot of it. The bedsheet and pillowcase on the couch is the same one that had been there since he first arrived earlier. Wayne shakes his head slightly; he's not sure why he expected a freshly changed new set. The life he's led, he's far from spoiled. But he wanted to give the other the benefit of the doubt. Truth be told, Bruce didn't care. He's been through far worse. 

Yet. He can't stop himself from still feeling disappointed. Which bothers him more than he wants to understand.

He wonders after a pause if he should catch Arthur's attention to alert him of his presence here, but it turns out it isn't necessary; Arthur seemed to sense Bruce is watching him and turns away from the stove to flash him an all-too friendly smile from the kitchen window.

"I should time you in the future," he comments. Awe radiating from him. "I only just started to sautè this chicken breast thinking you'd be in there for some time. The water hasn't even boiled yet and I haven't started on the carrots - you should have given me more time." Arthur fully faces Bruce on the last part, points the knife he was holding at the vigilante. The stare he gives him is so intense Bruce can't find his voice to defend himself. 

He holds it for several seconds. In that time frame, neither one blinks. It's too long, Bruce feels. He can't bear the weight of the scrutiny. His eyes grow dry, how long has he been doing this? Arthur has him, has a hold on him. Look away. He _must_ look away. He's caught him somehow and his heartbeat speeds up. He can't breathe. He's got to escape those eyes, those consuming, devouring eyes - they're digging too far inside of him. They know him. The real him. He doesn't know how he's doing it but Arthur is cutting him open and skinning away each layer. Everything's too hot. No, too cold. Too fucking much. Arthur's got to stop staring. Those eyes. _Those eyes._ There's no other existence outside of those eyes. He's choking and being shredded to pieces from those damn eyes--

Arthur blinks.

Bruce inhales.

The other man cracks a lopsided smile. He blinks again, flicks the knife blade Heavenward. "Just kidding. This meal doesn't take a lot of time and it's not as if I _haven't_ been put under a time crunch before," Arthur snorts while he turns back to his task at hand. "So make yourself at home. This won't be long."

Glinda begins to sing the first lines for the song that introduces the Munchkins to Dorothy. Arthur is humming something completely different. Bruce can't hear either of them. Only a buzzing. He waits and watches. Expecting Arthur to turn back around to him and explain himself. Or gloat at this strange control he knows he has on him. Possibly call him pathetic, or exploit him. But none of that happens. 

Bruce becomes aware of his surroundings and discovers he's still standing by the couch facing that kitchen window. His mouth had been open though for how long and why he doesn't know. He closes it with a slight flush to his ears thankful there was nobody else here. 

Bruce plops down on the couch and although sleep beckons him, he can't help but think of what the hell just happened to him not seconds ago. Why is he letting Arthur get to him like this? The man only looked at him for Christ's sake. In all the time he's been with him not once has Arthur done anything physically- or even mentally - to him that warrants him being this high on alert around him. Sure, he's said some odd things, that laugh of his was disquieting, and yes his social skills need serious adjusting. But other than that... at least compared to what Bruce is used to dealing with...

Arthur's been harmless.

Then why does it feel Arthur is draining him of everything that he is? And why does it seem like Bruce is letting him do it?

He doesn't care to listen to the movie. He's just too...Overwhelmed. He drops his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. The static inside grows louder. Devouring eyes expanding to every corner of his mind. They're becoming a disease. 

"Is it okay?"

Bruce starts, forgetting he wasn't alone and looks up to an eager face that was standing in the archway fumbling with his long fingers.

He gapes at Arthur, lost. "Is what okay?"

"Chicken. I am making you chicken and I realized I didn't ask if you even like it. Is that okay?"

Arthur's desperate for an answer. Wayne can feel a nervous vibe shooting over at him. Whatever confident or positive attitude the man had a moment ago disintegrated in the little time Bruce took to sit down and doubt everything. 

"Oh, yeah. That's perfectly fine."

Arthur's responding smile is brilliant and causes a strange fluttering sensation in Bruce's middle. The lithe man heads straight back to the stove. Bruce swallows hard and forces his attention on either the television set or fiddling around with the contents of his bag.

Television wins out.

~~~***~~~

 _The Wizard of Oz_ ended up not only being annoyingly edited but commercially interrupted as well. But it wasn't all bad. The commercials were a delight for Bruce to watch in of themselves. More than half of them he forgot ever existed, while the others were a treat to be reminded of the times sitting in front of the tv as a youth with his mother in the room.

He had forgotten just how many ads they had back then that were dedicated to women's pantyhose alone. And also the sheer amount of commercials that tried too hard to be funny when they weren't.

As the movie went on, Bruce found himself more invested in the advertisements than the film. He looked forward to every interruption in the movie for what godawful ad would try to sell him dated products or cigarettes or whatever was hot at the time.

Suddenly, Arthur darts towards the bathroom.

"Time me!" he barks over his shoulder to Bruce.

"W-what? Wait, time you for what, exactly? I'm sorry?" If Arthur means what the billionaire _thinks_ he means, Bruce wasn't in the mood.

Arthur pops his head out of the bathroom doorway, "My shower! I have everything on a low simmer and it should all be done by the time I finish here. So, time!" He zips back in. 

Bruce had every intention of arguing the point of how reckless and irresponsible it was to leave an open-flame stove on and walk away from it while the food is still cooking. He was prepared to slip into a Batman 'state-of-mind' to scare the careless man by 'fearing' the repercussion; one being the dangers he's putting not only the two of them in but the rest of the residents in the building should his negligence cause a fire.

He was predetermined to do any or all of these things the second he barged into the bathroom, however...

Bruce never got further than attempting to lift himself off the couch. The playboy's mind screeches to a sudden halt when he gets a full view of Arthur as he whips his shirt off in no time due to leaving the door open.

Oh. _Ohh._

So _that's_ what he looks like.

Arthur truly is a wafer-frail sized man. Just skin and bones. Bruce finds himself wondering how much the other weighs wet. Where all those nasty, massive bruises that litter his body came from. How often is he abused or is this a one-time thing? That the way he controls himself is that of a dancer.

_What the fuck are you staring at?_

Bruce shakes his head, once again breaking the hypnotism that Arthur seems to have over him. He rubs his eyes. He's just tired, is all. He leans his head back against the couch and sighs. This has been an unproductive yet draining day. His plan has been thrown out the window and somehow he has to get back on track starting tomorrow. Focus on the goal then head home. Keep telling himself this will be simple enough. It's not a mistake. Wanting to see his parents is not a mistake.

Water is running. Bruce looks up and gets a glimpse of Arthur bent over the bathroom sink. Scrubbing at his scalp. Why is he bathing in the sink, he wonders? His eyes trace the curve of the man's back. Something small burns in Bruce's lower abdomen as his cheeks heat up and he switches his attention back to the excitement on the tv screen. He shifts in his seat. 

He's not going to question the choices he's made, he does that bad enough back home. Can't afford to do it here. He clenches and releases his hold with both hands on the edge of the couch cushion to try and keep himself grounded. Bruce glances at the pillow sitting against the armrest and thoughts of a sleeping Arthur invade his mind.

Laying here, relaxed. Vulnerable. Wondering what sort of pajamas does the odd man wear. How often has he slept out here, or lived in this place? Has he ever fallen asleep with a cigarette still lit between his fingers...

The last thought made Wayne shudder, for all it brought to him were flashbacks of fire and all that he knew and loved burning to ash around him.

Not long after Arthur bounds out with a towel draped over his head and shoulders - Bruce has no idea where he got it from, he never saw Arthur anywhere near the closet where they are stored - wildly rubbing it. 

He flashes the playboy a crooked smile, "How'd I do?" he says as he continues on into the kitchen. Still shirtless.

"Oh, uh," Bruce flounders for an answer. He hadn't kept time at all. He hopes Arthur will be content with an estimated lie. "A hair shy of seven minutes."

Bruce doesn't see Arthur through the kitchen window, which leads him to the sunken feeling that the man has stopped dead where he stands somewhere near the entryway. Tense seconds pass by. He decides to keep talking.

"In all honesty, I found it quite impressive. I have always prided myself on taking brisk showers but damn have you got me beat."

Bruce kept his head turned to the front doing his best to act at ease. Even so, all his attention is in his peripheral vision for what little he could see. A scraping sound reached him and he peeked more and was surprised to find Arthur standing fully in the window focused on some task in front of him. His towel draped over his shoulders. Bruce never saw the man move into view, yet there he is.

Arthur doesn't add a comment to what Wayne says. He instead plates the food he's been fussing with and comes back around to approach Bruce with it. He throws the towel down the hall as he carries the food on top of a tray table fully laid out with a napkin and silverware. Although Bruce's unconscious mind doubts it really is silver. 

Arthur sets the tray in front of Bruce, leaning into him as he does it. His freshly shampooed hair tumbles to his front, barely grazing past Bruce's nose. Tickling it. The thin man does his best to slick it back while he straightens. Now giving the vigilante a rather close-up and intimate view of his torso. The hollowed lines. The discolored flesh. The undoubtedly virgin skin.

Whether Arthur is aware of this or not is beside the point, but, Bruce is not and _has_ not been staring at the plate before him. He's been inhaling and drinking in the scent of something other than food. Once Bruce becomes aware he is doing this, his face burns and only then he notices what Arthur made for him.

And that Arthur is currently taking the time to cut up his meal into small pieces right before him. Just as his mother did for him when he was a little child.

"Arthur," Bruce gently calls to him. The other doesn't react but keeps cutting. Bruce reaches up and touches his wrists, _"Arthur,"_ he says much firmer.

The touch gives Arthur a slight jolt and he immediately stops, lets out a gasp and meets Bruce's gaze like a deer in the headlights.

This causes Bruce to pause, his breath hitches. Eyes locked. _This is our first physical contact,_ Wayne's mind tells himself. He's not sure why that's a note to be taken down or what sort of significance it ultimately means. But it electrifies him. His fingertips brush goose flesh. 

Bruce hears his own heartbeat loud in his ears just as Arthur's pupils expand. He draws a quick breath and forces the words he meant to say right at the start, "Thank you but I can take it from here."

A veil falls over Arthur as he sorts out the comment, which doesn't take long. The same mixture of horror and embarrassment that he showed Bruce in the bathroom he's now repeating here. Eyes wide, he releases the utensils - causing them to clatter down onto the plate - and takes a swift step back. 

"I-uh... Sorry," stammers Arthur with a pained frown. He runs a hand through his hair while the other arm wraps around his anemic stomach. He takes his other arm and crosses his chest with it, eyes flicking across the floor like he's desperately searching for something. It hits Bruce as to what Arthur is doing; he's trying to cover his naked self up.

_Arthur feels ashamed and vulnerable._

Bruce instantly goes cold. He did not wish to do that. That's not what he intended _at all._

He curses to himself and tries to reach out to the other man. "Arthur," he calls mildly but Arthur takes off behind the couch beyond Bruce's line of sight and all the billionaire can hear is a groan of a drawer being yanked open and what he identifies as the rustle of cloth shaking out. Bruce turns his head but only as far as it will naturally go. Something tells him not to turn any further. In his peripheral vision, he can tell the man is dressing his upper half. It's some dark shade of fabric.

An aggressive _slam!_ follows. Shaking the mirror to hit the wall above the chest of drawers. A panic strikes through Bruce and he grabs the back of the couch with his hand. Bracing himself. There's movement behind him, he cranes his neck to see. Arthur his pacing back and forth near the back of the room. He's got two tight fistfuls of his hair and is quietly rambling. His pacing increases, agitation rises. Arthur kicks viciously at the leg of the dresser without warning. Bruce flinches reflexively because Arthur isn't wearing shoes. His own foot hurts at the excruciating pain the long-haired man must be going through. But shockingly, Arthur doesn't seem to register it at all. That fact sends a horrible lead ball sinking down into Bruce's gut.

A feeling he's all too familiar with. Fuck, if he isn't getting deja vu. 

_A familiar laugh cackles in the back of his mind..._

Arthur freezes. He's now staring intently at the little side table and chairs that sit against the wall. Bruce eyes the two. The table is still cluttered, but nestled prominently amongst the other items is a beaten up, brown notebook. It's clearly used and seen better days. Not seconds later Arthur dives at it and clutches the wretched thing to his chest. He sits himself awkwardly in the chair and hunches over the table. One clawed hand goes back to gripping his hair, the other is almost ripping through the pages until he finds the one he wants then heatedly starts scrawling something therein. A leg bounces. He starts a slight rocking and the mumbling picks back up. Arthur seems to have forgotten Bruce is in the room.

Bruce is quiet through all of this. Merely watching and studying the man before him. His alarm bells are going off again. Clanging and clashing the obvious solution for him to do. The one he should have stuck to originally. He spares only one glance at the front door, then his full attention is back to Arthur. Another song is playing on the tv. Dorothy is teaming up with all her odd new friends.

The Scarecrow was always Bruce's favorite. He was never sure why.

Wayne has a sudden, fierce need to whip Arthur around and see his face. Cradle it in his hands. Know what he's feeling. Read those expressive eyes. 

But he also knows it's better to just leave Arthur alone right now. Do not disturb him or touch him. Not that Bruce was going to. He understood space and could tell the man needed it. At the very least, not to provoke him any more than he currently is.

So, Bruce clenched his teeth and huffed out his nose. There was a dull ache inside to help, but he ignored it and forced himself to shift back to facing the tv. He stared at his meal. Chicken, noodles, and carrots. Bruce wasn't overly hungry but he wasn't going to be impolite either. He picked up the knife and fork that Arthur dropped and began to eat.

It... was surprisingly good. Not exceptional. And nothing to write or brag about to the newspapers or compare to Martha Stewart. But nonetheless. It was... pleasant. Tasteful in a nice way. 

Bruce couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it reminded him of a home he once visited. When he was little. Though it wasn't necessarily a 'visit'. Bruce's age at the time could've been counted on one hand or so when it happened. The only reason he remembers any of it at all was that it was the first time he was kidnapped. He doesn't recall the details anymore, only that he was scared and the small group of people that were there wouldn't let him leave the corner of the room they shared. There was a woman there who mainly looked after him. She's the one who fed him, and that's where the familiarity of the taste is coming from. 

The funny thing is; he liked it then. And he likes it now. It was nothing like what Alfred makes. So he had always chalked it up to 'that's just how the middle-class food tastes like at home.' He was a child raised on a pedestal. He didn't know any better.

He does now, with everything he's been through. So he finds it strange that, out of all the flashback memories to have that's the one this simple flavor throws him back to. The vigilante has a feeling there's a deeper meaning to all of it somewhere. But right at this point, particularly on how exhausted he his, he doesn't give a rat's ass.

Moments like these always have a funny way of coming back to bite him later. Oh well. Wouldn't be the fucking first time.

~~~***~~~

Several bites later and Dorothy and the gang somehow made it to the Emerald City. (And it doesn't appear to be their first time there.) Bruce thinks _'somehow'_ because for the life of him he can't remember how they suddenly got there. He _had_ been watching the movie, and it's not as if he doesn't know the damn storyline. But one moment they were on the yellow brick road and the next - Emerald City celebration. 

_Christ._ Bruce rubs his face. He must have tapped out for a spell. He gauges how much food he has left, and based on it he concludes his body went on autopilot while he left the building. To a pleasant relief, it hadn't been long. Less than half remains which is good. It still gives Bruce something to do until they both call it a night.

Bruce's chest constricts. His focus on the tv wavers. The bit of chicken in his mouth he swallows far too soon and it burns as it goes down. But he refuses to show that there is anything physically wrong with him by straining to keep a normal composer. But God is it difficult. The increased speed of his heartbeat does him no favors. And he knows why, but it makes him frustrated to admit it.

Arthur is sitting on the other side of the couch, watching him. Smoking.

How in _superfluous Hell_ did he not notice him 'walk up and sit down'? Not to mention light up? Just how out of it _is_ he? 

Wayne bolsters all the 'fake charm' he can muster and turns to the other man. With a practiced smile, he asks casual-like, "Did I spill something on my face?"

Arthur doesn't answer him right away, which Bruce takes the opportunity to divulge a good look at his couch mate. He's only now noticed the shirt Arthur is wearing is a muted red color. It's also long-sleeved and is remarkably flattering to his figure. But that's not the only thing he notices.

Arthur has one long leg crossed over the other, fitting knee on top of knee like a perfect puzzle piece. He's slouching, but it somehow looks dignified. His right elbow is propped up on the armrest with his right hand hovering over his mouth and part of his nose, holding a freshly lit cigarette. His head is tilted down so all Bruce can truly focus on are those startling eyes. Which are now currently studying him so intensely Bruce wonders if Arthur can see more than just what's on the outside of a person. 

If he put money on it, he'd bet Arthur was trying to read his mind and soul. Past, present, and future. What scares him is for some unexplained reason, he fears he'd let the man do it if given half the chance.

Eventually, Arthur gives a slight shake of his head, "No. I was just wondering why you're doing it."

"I'm sorry, come again?" Bruce's mind was fog-brained. Had he missed something?

A wicked smile pulls the edges of Arthur's mouth up, "I haven't yet," he says with a spark of mania lighting up his green - or are they blue? - eyes.

It takes Bruce nearly a solid minute to pick up the not-so-subtle innuendo that had been smartly thrown at him. His face goes slack. He glares back, "Then I don't know what you mean." 

Arthur gestures with his free hand to Wayne's own. "That. All of that. I don't get why you're doing it."

Bruce looks to his hands. They are holding a knife and a fork near the plate. He raises an eyebrow back to his companion. "You... don't get why I'm eating the dinner you gave me, or that I want to cut my own meal?"

"This thing." Arthur, with a cigarette in hand, sits up straight and holds his arms the same way as Bruce. He begins to reenact cutting an imaginary meal and making an emphasis on switching the utensils in hand, overly placing one down, then mimes putting the cut piece up to his mouth. "That," he says pointedly when finished, leaning back against the couch. "I don't get the point of you doing it. Seems like an awful lot of work just to eat your food." He brings the cigarette back to his lips and takes a deep drag of it.

 _Oh._ So _that's_ it. Arthur is just curious.

The whole notion makes Bruce crack a small smile.

No one had ever commented on his eating etiquette before. He'd been so used to spending time around Alfred and other parties of high society and none of them would have ever batted an eyelash on how he handles his cutlery. It's a natural habit built into him since he was a small boy. His father taught him. It was the proper thing to do. It became second nature just like all his other skills. And that was the end of it.

But it also did a bit more. And for reasons Bruce shoved far away, he decided he wanted to explain to Arthur a bit on just why.

"I can see your outside viewpoint on that-- and would agree with you. But for me, well. It forces me to slow down when I eat so I don't shove everything in in one go. Which, trust me, I have tendencies to do," he huffs a laugh at the last part, which gets Arthur to smile at him in return. "But it also keeps me busy and gives my hands something to do."

The billionaire chose not to mention anything about it being a part of his upbringing. The less Arthur knew about him the absolute better it is for both of them.

Arthur scratches his chin with his thumb and stares at Bruce with renewed interest. Bruce studies the man's collar, refusing to meet his face.

"Uhm," Arthur's voice pipes up hesitant, "Do you think you could uh... show me how to do it?"

Bruce looks up in surprise. He wasn't expecting that. Nor what he sees. Arthur's whole demeanor is that of a shy child asking an adult if they can go play outside. He seems so frail and nervous. What a vast switch.

Bruce was too amused - or worn out - to say no. "Sure."

Arthur's face lights up. It's beautiful. _Strange choice of words_ the playboy thinks than banishes as he gestures for the thin man to scoot closer to him. He does so with catlike grace and only stops when they are mere inches from one another. Arthur sets his cigarette down on an ashtray sitting on the coffee table. He then leans closer to the tray table. Bruce can smell his shampoo again.

Wayne passes the fork and knife over to the other. "Which is your dominant hand?"

Arthur looks to his hands. "My right one, why?"

"To start this off, you hold the knife in your dominant hand and the fork in the other."

Arthur takes them and does as instructed. He looks up to Bruce's face expectantly for what to do now.

"Okay. Now, this will feel weird compared to what you're used to. But this process is pretty basic all the same. Stab the fork in the meat and then cut a small piece off with the knife."

It occurred to Bruce that he should demonstrate it for Arthur first, feeling that the other is more of a visual learner than anything. So he asks politely for the utensils back and gives a quick show of it. Making sure Arthur is watching and noticing when to do what and switch when. Arthur's attention never wavers.

When he has Arthur try, the other goes about it slow. Bruce can tell it is uncomfortable for him. But he says nothing about it. As he watches him, Bruce gets a curious idea that, perhaps, in so doing this, maybe he can get Arthur to eat some of this. The man is far too skinny. It's worrisome. There's a slim chance it will work, but he figured he'll try.

When Arthur cut his first piece and switches his hands, he brings it up to his face and stares at it in wonderment. Bruce waits, nearly praying he'll eat it... but all that shatters when he sets it back down on the plate.

"You're right, it does keep your hands busy." Arthur smiles up at Bruce and picks up his cigarette again.

Bruce picks up the fork still with the chicken on it, "You know, this is technically your piece, so why don't you eat it?" He holds it out to the other.

Arthur puffs out smoke, "No. I'm not hungry." Then suddenly snatches the fork out of the hero's hand with remarkable speed and points it back at him, "You eat it. I made it for you."

They don't break eye contact for a while. The moment is electrified with a growing intensity that's weighted. Bruce opens his mouth and allows Arthur to feed him. Arthur's eyes glow brightly from the tv's reflection. They are once again screaming with hunger.

"I know you never timed me," Arthur whispers. Bruce swallows.

Not long after it's interrupted by Arthur whipping his head to the tv, his full attention to that now. He melts at the sight of what is on the screen and mutters one word in a dreamy, infatuated tone; _"Murray."_

Bruce follows his gaze and sees an older talk show host just starting to walkout at the beginning of his own show. 

So. This is the man Arthur's been raving about since their walk home. In all intense and purposes, he seemed to be a typical, Johnny Carson-esque host. Nothing unusual or standing out about him at all. And yet he had Arthur practically swooning next to him.

Bruce didn't get the appeal. He didn't seem all that great to him.

\--------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N: Okay. So, jeez. Believe it or not but this was supposed to be even longer than this. There's supposed to be a dream sequence but I'm getting frustrated with not posting anything cuz I KEEP RAMBLING ON AND ADDING MORE SHIT TO IT so I thought 'fuck it' and am going to put that in a separate chapter. So. Yeah.
> 
> I can't tell if this is good or not, but here it is. Let me know what you think, K? Great <3)


	6. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce falls asleep and has a dream...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: (UPDATED IT.)  
> Hey all! Sorry, this took so dang long to update! Everything from the library down (it'll make sense when you read) I literally wrote today while the rest of it.... oh, I don't know. I haven't been feeling well and a plethora of other things.
> 
> Anywho. This silly thing ended up being waaaaay longer than I meant it to be. Sorry! It was supposed to be like, 1,000 + words. Not like 5,000. Whatever.
> 
> Anyway. If you liked it, let me know! (I tried to make it as quirky as dreams can be. Cuz... well, they are.)
> 
> ALSO: My first time writing... well, we'll say, 'spicier' material. Heh... Forgive... Or don't.

Bruce fell asleep during The Murray Franklin Show. 

That night he had a dream. A dream he couldn't quite remember later on - as that tends to happen - but went something like this:

_It started in a whitewashed cafeteria. 'Bleak' would best describe it. Ceiling fluorescent lightbulbs were the main sources of light, giving everything a sickly pail hew. A handful of these 'hospital sabers' flickered periodically. Adding a nice touch to the scene._

_The room was vast with many tables laid out to try and fill the empty space. There were people in the room; all geriatrics. Bent over in their seats, hunched against walls blending in with the furniture. Lost. Broken. Empty. Shells. Not a single one spoke. Nearly all of them were sitting at some such table with a card and piles of colorful chips in front of them. A somber voice from nowhere would randomly announce numbers and letters every once in a while. Ancient, toothless mouths smacking at nothing. A wrinkled hand takes its time sliding a bright chip over their card, covering a number and letter combo that had been called out correctly._

_This was the extent of movement inside the room. Tinny elevator music was meant to fill in the silence, yet somehow it made everything worse._

_Bruce sat on an uncomfortable metal folding chair facing them all with an open newspaper written in jibberish. His calf resting over his knee. He couldn't read the paper, yet he understood everything it said. It rabble-roused at him like some old-fashioned mob with torches. Declaring to him their plans to turn Crime Alley into a Jack the Ripper-like tour._

_This news raised his blood to the boiling point of rage. It rushed to him fast and unbridled, blackening his vision. He crumpled up the newspaper into a tight ball and threw it down aided by a bass growl. It hit the floor - and burst into flames. A thousand disjointed screams surge out from the fireball, wailing and shrieking. They blast his eardrums with their cries as their flesh burns with each word scorched away. It's shrill; running his hot blood cold. "Help me! Save me!" he hears in the cacophony of death before him._

_"My God. What have I done?" Wayne whispers before rushing forward and frantically stomp the fire out. He doesn't feel the heat though it licks up his leg. It's warm, and that alone motivates him to move as quickly as he can before he's burned along with them. His eyes are closed against the smoke. It's only when the sounds have ceased does he begin to relax. Panting._

_Down, beneath his shoe. Only a few traces of ash remain. Some flutter up to greet him. He had forgotten it was always paper._

_Tinny music clears his mind. Bruce senses eyes upon him and he looks up to the roomful of elders. All are staring blankly to what he'd been doing. Moments pass and Bruce doesn't know what to say. He swallows hard._

_"Sorry," he says to the room and marches to the nearest door. The long metal handle CLANKS! down and it swings open..._

_Into Wayne Manor. Bruce was back home, only it wasn't. It felt like home and seemed like home, therefore it was. But it didn't quite look like the original._

_Every wall space held a picture, portrait, or painting of something nonsequitur. Most were beastly in size and all were intricate in detail concerning the frames around them. Furniture was scarce. A marble fireplace was sunk into the wall in the foyer aimed at the front door. The house still held the same warm, comforting glow it always seemed to have, however. But the shape of it was... all wrong._

_Bruce didn't bat an eyelash to any of these odd changes as he made his way to the stairs, which was magnanimously less numbered than normal. There were only six steps to get to the high second floor. Which made sense at the time._

_Such is the logic of dreams._

_The billionaire grabbed the handrail and took the first step - and instantly collapsed upon the stairs, falling hard like a lead weight. He threw an arm out to help break his fall, but it did nothing to stop the indescribable burning sensation that struck the nerves in his kneecap when it banged into the edge of one of the steps._

_He felt that. A low buzzing hummed into his brain._

_His grip unconsciously tightened on the railing as he resisted a yell by clenching his teeth. Bruce tried to lift himself and was amazed by just how unexplainably heavy his own body weight had become. It was as if he became too dense for gravity. He had landed on top of his arm and in doing so, used it the best way he could to grip the stair and push his upper body up to keep going. Keep climbing. He forced his head up against insurmountable pressure - a challenge that his unconscious mind argued was because he was just that tired - with eyes squeezed tight. He dragged his other foot along to the second step, doing his damndest to plant it firmly to raise himself up to repeat the process. His chest burned. He tried to use his other hand as leverage on the railing. Refusing to let it go._

_That's when he noted the buzzing in his head was not only getting louder but also coming from above. He craned his neck to see, prying an eye open... only to be greeted with Alfred, tidying up around the ceiling with a vacuum. Upside down._

_\--It should be noted that the dimensions from ceiling to floor fluctuated on an irregular basis in this dreamscape. Such as, in one instance all would be normal - or, as 'normal' as something in this realm can be - then, say, the next inhale of breath the ceiling might shift and blast off into infinity--Or the total opposite would occur which would be the ceiling smashing down till it brushes the top of ones' head on the plaster. And because it all happens so smoothly it's in the realm of 'logical'._

_The ceiling did not chaotically flip back and forth willy-nilly all the time, however. Nor was Bruce's focus ever on that in the first place. For whenever it moved, Alfred went with it. And quite literally that was the only thing the Hero paid any great attention to. Until the butler left the room of course. But that's moving a smidge ahead. Let's go back now, shall we?--_

_"Alfred!" shouted Bruce to his surrogate father. He tried again when it seemed the old man hadn't heard him the first time._ _His muscles tightened as he pushed against the force that was keeping him down and called out a third time, "Alfred!"_

_Alfred looks up - or down - and smiles with an "Ah, Master Wayne!" before turning down a dial attached to his 'Dust Buster' to reduce the obnoxious **vrooming!** sound because of course, he can._

_Once at a suitable level, he returns his attention back to the playboy, "Good morning Sir! I didn't hear you come in," the butler said with a smile. "Did you have a chance to read this morning's paper?"_

_Bruce grunted when he successfully inchwormed up another step. **Just three more...** "I did, and I want to know who sanctioned this so I have a chance to personally congratulate them myself. Particularly for asking if it was at all alright with me." He growled with a sheer will as he repeated the--drag the foot, leverage the arm, push--routine. He didn't care how he was getting up these goddamn stairs, so long as he was getting up them._

_"Yes yes. I know what you mean," Alfred lamented, shaking his head. The old man patted Bruce's hair for, naturally, he was head-level with the playboy from his vertically switched location. "Vile rubbish, really. But don't you worry, Sir. We'll take care of it before you can say, 'CapsicartigoHoetidonifluetielafaxigunalQphlubenaph."_

_The butler then smiled at him. All warmth and reassurance as usual._

_Bruce nearly went boneless with laughter as he thought 'Saying it. Easier said than done.' He would later have no memory as to why that struck him to be as funny as it was, for the billionaire would not recall the strange nonsensical word when he awoke later on._

_And why was it funny now? Only Bruce's childhood imagination can answer that._

_"Oh, by the by, Master Bruce," Alfred stuck a finger in the air - now several feet vaulted back up from his surrogate son, "I've been needing to inform you that a Mr. Topps is waiting for you in the Library. He's been there for some time now."_

_Bruce pulled his body forward up the steps, the exertion making his muscles scream. **One left...** He slapped his hand on the top step when Alfred's words took effect. He froze. "Mr. Topps?"_

_"That is what I said, son. Do keep up." Alfred turned away and began fussing once more with the vacuum._

_Bruce took this momentary pause to try and control his breathing. The strength in his body was floundering and he was losing control. So close to the top yet too weak to finish six steps..._

_The hero rested his head on the ledge of one of the wooden steps and pondered on the name the butler told him. Who was Mr. Topps? Bruce had never heard that name before and yet the very sound of it alarmed him. He didn't know why. But he knew more than ever his destination was the library. Which, coincidentally, was on the second floor._

_"Alfred why is Mr. Topps here? Who is he and what does he want?" was what Bruce had intended to ask with the resolve of gaining some knowledge for this alarm in his head. Sadly, the hero barely was able to utter out the older man's name before he was utterly drowned out by the blare of the vacuum as it revved back up again._

_It became wasted effort to look back up to what he already knew, which was Alfred now busying himself around one of the chandeliers. There was no point in reaching him. Nor did Bruce feel like trying. He instead went back to switching his attention to get off those damn stairs._

_After touching the top step Bruce found that he could wondrously pick himself up and scramble to the top. It wasn't dignified, no. But none of that mattered. He automatically rolled onto his back believing he would need to take a moment to regain himself, but much to his surprise the vigilante kept rolling till he ended in a crouch and then stood. The heaviness, the weight, the sheer fight it took just to lift up onto his elbows..._

_Was gone. He examined himself briefly but there was no sign of sweat or strain. He looked back down at the stairs - and had to grab the railing for stability, as his head spun from the shift in appearance. They weren't six steps anymore. Now, they were six thousand steps yet somehow the same distance away.  
_

_'Huh. So that's why I'm exhausted,' he pondered to himself. Then without wasting any more time at this location, Bruce turned on his heels to the left, down the hall and marched his way to the Library._

_\--The Library in the real world is comfortably furnished with wall-to-wall books in subjects ranging from legal affairs to whimsical romps. The volume and style of books evolved over the years but otherwise, Bruce had always kept it looking the way it did when the family name 'Wayne' was used on someone other than himself. Unconsciously or consciously, Bruce had made it and all the major rooms in the manor a photograph; never changing._

_The Library in this rendition, however, could barely be called a room, let alone a Library. It would boggle the mind how it could physically take place indoors located where it currently is, if not in this limitless world. Where time, space, logic and reasoning mean nothing but guidelines for the mind._

_Which is interesting to note that the Library here; is a Labyrinth. And Bruce knows it well.--_

_He strode into a small but well lit open space, hexagon in shape. Maroon carpet, tan wood-paneled walls, and high-end wall sconces between each entrance - which there were, of course, six._

_To enter each - as well as the main room itself - was only a simple archway. Round. Basic. Simple. But each was exactly the same. To tell one different from the others was as easy as putting out a raging inferno by politely asking it to stop._

_Behind each entrance were hallways of identically lined bookcases - the beginning of the Labyrinth. Six entrances. One destination. Possibility of getting lost: indescribably high._

_Nevertheless, Bruce charged forth without any hesitation in his steps and passed through the third archway from the right._

_His turns were sharp, his stride was quick._

_… His patience was wearing thin._

_He knew instinctively where to go to meet this ‘Mr. Topps’. The very center of the maze was the so-called ‘reading room’; the part of any Library where one sits and relaxes with their personal choice of a good book. Or in this case, to entertain guests._

_But in order to get the reading room, Bruce had to trudge through the long, twisting corridors of overstuffed hardbacks and well-worn volumes. In this world, it was a normal affair. He let his body lead him. His mind wandered to other places._

_Until a bleeding bookshelf caught his eye._

_He slowed as he approached, keeping to the middle of the hallway when he fully turned to face it. The phrase ‘slow as molasses’ came to his mind but briefly in regards to how he and the environment moved at that time._

_As he had come closer, Bruce had wondered if he had_ _only imagined the long red streak. But facing it now and being able to study it there was not only any question that the bookcase was - in fact - leaking some kind of red substance, but that it was spilling freely as he stood and stared._

_The position of it reminded Bruce of a gunshot wound. Only one spot bled and from a very specific place._

_Very, very specific._

_Bruce didn’t like it. It had an energy to it which warned that it was a thing of evil, filth, and debauchery. And yet somewhere in the back of his mind, slinking and sliding through every crevice of his brain, was a voice telling him that ‘this belongs to you now. It is your curse to carry._ ’

_So he approached it, heart pounding in his ears. The closer he got, the more his intestines squirmed. He breathed heavy through his nose and understood - less than a foot away from it - that it was a book._

_His skin itched. His palms sweated. A strange scream-like whine was erupting inside him somewhere as he reached out and grasped the unholy thing._

_Slimy, slippery. He pulled it out slow, squelching in his grasp and slurping at everything else it touched on its way out._

_The damned thing was soaked. The deepest, almost blackest red coated the entire outer shell._

_Bruce was numb to it, for he knew it was his. He rotated the book around to see if he could find a name to call it, but there was none to be had. The blood was simply too thick and sloppy. He opened it to its title page and lo, there was its name. In big, bold ink against the crispest and whitest of paper. It was impossible to mistake it for anything else._

_As Bruce read the title, Death Bells tolled in the distance. All else was silence._

_**Confessions of a Vile Soul:  
** _ _**The True and Honest Life  
** _ _**of  
** _ **_Thomas Wayne_ **

_A lead weight sank to the bottom of his stomach and festered there._

_… Someone was talking._

_The vigilante raised his head. A low, muffled voice was coming from the other side of the bookcase._

_He knew that voice. It haunted him everywhere he goes. Electrifying his spine. Pulsing his veins. Giving him life and a path to follow whenever he falls astray._

_The book is nothing now. The voice is everything. He snaps the accursed thing in his hands shut and makes a beeline to the voice. A hound on the scent. His eyes are focused. He's never been more concentrated. He turns a corner--_

_And there **he** is. Bruce stands frozen._

_The purple suit. The greasepaint. The scars. The Joker at his finest. Radiating all he's known and will always know of him. Another half._

_But Bruce doesn't approach. He's struggling to breathe._

_For the other is not alone; Arthur is with him._

_Up against a bookcase. Cornered. The blade of a knife resting on his throat._

_Bruce doesn't dare move._

_The Joker is almost pressed entirely against the other man. He's using his free arm to lean against the bookcase, placing it possessively near Arthur's head. He is speaking low into Arthur's ear. Bruce cannot make out what he is saying._

_Arthur's eyes are down-cast, the ghost of a smile flickering on his lips. Both palms are pressed flat against the bookcase. He gives no sign that he feels threatened. On the contrary, from only his body language alone - heavy panting, a flush to his skin, his nails clawing up the spines of the books, tilting his head up for easier access - Bruce can see that Arthur is unabashedly--_

_The Joker flicks a glance his way. They make eye contact and hold it. He stops talking._

_No one moves for several seconds._

_Then the Joker smiles and turns to the hero._

_If he notices the bleeding book he says nothing. He doesn't seem to care. Typical._

_Somehow Bruce knows what's coming next and his mind is screaming for him to move - but his body is cemented to the spot. Every part of him stuck. His eyes wide and watering._

_The Joker licks his painted mouth, feeding off the billionaire's predicament._

_Then like a stab it hits Bruce, and his mouth falls open. "Mr. Topps," he whispers, and the Joker's eyes gleam with delight._

_"Uh, Finder's Keepers," he scolds Bruce. Then in an instant, he grabs onto Arthur and disappears around a corner. Cackling._

_"JOKER!" The name rips from Bruce's throat, and like a spell broken he moves. Dashing down the hallway he makes it to the end in seconds and grabs the edge to use for momentum to swing around..._

_Only to be faced with an empty aisle ahead._

_But he doesn't let that phase him; he can still hear the laughing. The maniacal call that is solely the madman's own and he runs. He follows it. Aisle after dead end after repeat. He's become disoriented and forgotten which way he's come and where to go next._

_He's not tired. He's not lost. He knows this place. It isn't mocking him. He's sure he came that way... Or was it that way? His chest burns._

_Arthur shrieks. The echo of it goes in stereo all around him. He keeps running. He loses his balance, falls... and falls..._

_To the center of the Labyrinth._

_The playboy blinks. He doesn't remember landing. Yet here he stands; a strange rush of adrenaline coursing through him, lighting him up._

_There's a clock ticking somewhere. But no clocks to be seen. No sound other than that. The air is thick with a heavy silence he could almost grab, but the rhythmic ticking off centers it. It's warm here. The lighting is dimmer._

_He has successfully reached the Reading Room and is the only occupant there._

_Two overstuffed leather chairs face each other in the middle. A Persian rug lays below them. Only one chair has a floor lamp next to it - the main source of light. Bruce chooses this chair to sit in._

_He has no thoughts as he scans the room. Listening to the seconds tick by. He's empty of all that has happened, though not sure why. He looks down at his lap. The book is still there, resting and waiting._

_'When in Rhome' he thinks, lifts the wet cover and flips to a random page._

_Bruce stares at the words, blankly. Like the newspaper before, he can't read it. But worse than the newspaper, he can't understand what it means, either. The words keep shifting, changing. Morphing into something else. Not a single one of them settles long enough to be able to tell what letter they're trying to form. Bruce doesn't seem to mind. It's hypnotizing to watch. He turns a page. Same thing on that one, too._

_As he watches, he becomes aware that he is not alone in the room anymore. He looks up and sees an occupant in the chair before him._

_It's Arthur. He's sitting closed and hunched in on himself; feet together, hands resting in his lap, head lowered. He doesn't move._

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

_Bruce blinks, then returns to his book. He still can't read it. The strange scribbly words have not gotten worse, nor have they gotten better. They just keep folding in on themselves. Ever shifting._

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

_Bruce looks up again. Arthur is staring at him now. Motionless. Bruce goes back to the book._

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. TIck. Tock._

_When Bruce looks up again, Arthur is now standing and is a couple of steps away from his own chair. He says nothing. He does nothing. But stares. Bruce looks back down. He turns another page. The words have not changed._

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

_Up again he looks, and Arthur has moved. Now he stands halfway between them. This time, Bruce only flicks his eyes down then back up... and now Arthur is directly in front of him._

_The vigilante is pinned by the other's gaze. If the eyes are astonishing in real life then they are spectacular here. This is the first time Bruce has gotten to see them in this world. Ethereal orbs striking Godlike energy out upon whoever dares challenge them. And Bruce is dumbstruck by them._

_He doesn't move when Arthur takes the book off his lap and flings it across the room. He doesn't resist when Arthur climbs on top of him and straddles his waist, somehow molding perfectly into the chair with him. And he never once turns away when they keep eye contact the entire time._

_He can't. He's been captured by those eyes. He has nowhere to go._

_Arthur leans in close to Bruce's face. He examines every detail of the billionaire's face. A lopsided smile creeps up with a mischievous promise._

_Bruce feels a coil tightening in his lower abdomen. It sends a rush straight up his spine as it grows. He grips the armrests to try to center himself and refrain from taking an action he knows he could regret. Though he's rapidly forgetting why._

_Arthur's hands slide up and down Bruce's chest, exploring the broad space and swirl his thumbs to massage every muscle his fingertips find. This isn't helping._

_Bruce lets out a guttural moan when Arthur rolls his hips, making sure the friction is hard and rubs every part of Arthur's underside._

_The other man throws his head back and is practically obscene with sound. He grips Bruce's shoulder with nail-biting ferocity with one hand and rocks his hips again. The other flies into the hero's hair and pulls._

_A high-pitched whine erupts from Arthur's throat. He continues to make a series of these same cries with his mouth open against Bruce's own._

_They didn't take their clothes off but it doesn't matter; Arthur's riding him. Bruce can feel it. THey're connected, he's in. He grabs Arthur's waist and begins to pump him up and down to where Arthur's bouncing. Bruce lets out a guttural growl, baring teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut till it almost hurts._

_Fuck it feels good. They move faster; Bruce thrusts harder. Arthur's cries escalate._

_Then Bruce feels Arthur's hot breath coming in buffs on his ear. His mind is riling up, the coil is taught to snap, the heat is unbearable._

_And even so, Bruce could still hear through his fogged-fucked mind, what Arthur was saying to him in a steady, clear voice._

_"They say that 'incest is best'," said Arthur, sickly sweet. "'Oh, Brother! Where art thou?'"_

_Just as the words and meaning sunk in, **his** laugh erupted from every direction. Bruce snapped his eyes open and there, across from him sat the Joker, whooping and hollering in the other matching chair. Bending over with peels of laughter. Rocking back into the chair and slapping his knee. He pointed at Bruce, his lungs filled with mirth. _

_And he laughed at how funny the whole joke was._

_And laughed. And laughed. And laughed..._

_\--------------------------_

Bruce woke to find himself lying on his stomach and squeezing the top cushion of the couch. Drooling. The remnants of the dream drifting off into oblivion. Only the laugh remained. But that was nothing new.

He didn't feel like opening his eyes yet. Instead, he panned to lay there just as he was for a bit longer, however long that would be. 

But once instincts are built-in, they are next to impossible to remove. And that overbearing sense that someone was bending over him as he lay there could not be ignored, and his body reacted accordingly.

Like the strike of a snake Bruce reached up and grabbed the offender by the collar and yanked them up to his face as he sat up.

The intruder let out a strangled gasp as they were manhandled. Bruce gave a Batman-stony glare and prepared his other fist to strike hard when he faltered in his act as he was greeted with a very surprised Arthur Fleck.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" Bruce asked after a brief pause.

Arthur wraps both his hands around the one Bruce is holding him by, an unsure smile settles on his face. "I...I heard a noise out here and came out to investigate," he says barely above a whisper. "I found you talking in your sleep - did you know you talk in your sleep? Because you did quite a lot - and it looked like you were having a bit of a struggle in it. I became worried."

Bruce doesn't answer. Just searches Arthur's eyes for a hidden motive or a hint of a lie. He couldn't find one.

"Boy, it must have been some dream you were having," Arthur continues. Bruce loosens his grip on him which encourages the other man to keep talking. "I-I know what it's like to have a nasty dream that's rough to wake from. I get them all the time."

Arthur says a few more things but Bruce has tuned him out now. He releases his hold on his shirt. His gaze drifted downward and he noticed two things: 

One.) Arthur was sitting cross-legged on the coffee table and based on the placement of the other items around the floor, had been sitting there for some time.

Two.) Arthur wasn't wearing any pants.

He still had his socks on, but pants were nowhere in sight. Tighty-whities poked from underneath his maroon shirt. Bruce couldn't fathom why, but looking at them and the man's bare legs caused his face to burn. He focused on a magazine on the floor instead.

"Joker."

"What?" Bruce turned back in Arthur's direction at the utterance of that name.

"Joker," Arthur repeats. "I said the one word you kept repeating was 'Joker'. A funny name to have such a significance, don't you think?"

Bruce rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah." He does _not_ want to talk about that. About _him._

Arthur starts picking at his socks. "Um, can I ask why you would say that name so much?" He looks up at Bruce with curious - if not hurt - eyes. Bruce did not understand this look. The only place it belongs to is someone who is jealous.

Or, Bruce is overthinking this and needs coffee.

"It's... I don't know. I can't remember what I dreamed anymore so who knows what it meant?"

Then a tiny bell goes off in his mind. It brings a concern he's not sure where it's based, but it's most likely a coincidence. Still, he has to find out. "Arthur... why did you refer to that word as a name just now?"

Was there a flicker of an unknown secret in those eyes just now? Does Arthur know? Can he possibly know about the other?

No. No, fuck. Bruce is overthinking this. He needs to calm down. Just breathe and wait for the man's answer. He's got to learn to not be so paranoid.

Arthur gives a one-shoulder shrug. "You said it so much I figured it was more than just some comical word. Besides, it seemed to mean something to you," his voice lowers at the last part as he watches himself pick dirt out of his nails. He peeks at Bruce one time then lowers his head again.

This entire exchange is making Bruce uneasy.

Bruce just wanted to change the subject and move on with the day. If... it was daytime.

"What time is it?"   
  
"Oh, it's around nine."

"In the morning?"

Arthur bit his lip, amusement lighting up his face. "Of course, silly."

"Right. Uh, say. Do you have any coffee? I could really use a cup."

"Sure, I'll go make some." Arthur hops up off the table and makes his way to the kitchen. Bruce can't help but follow his retreating form. He shifts on the couch. "Hey, Arthur?"  
  
"Yeah?" the scrawny man turns around in the doorway, leaning on one wall.

Bruce rubs his face. He's too groggy for this. "Are you going to put any pants on?"

"No," he says, and turns to walk into the kitchen.

That's it. Bruce needed to spend some time away from this man if even for a little while. Though why him not wearing pants is the turning point, he doesn't know.

... But he has an uneasy feeling he knows the truth.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there ya go. It's all over the place cuz, guess what? That's what dreams do. Go all over the place. 
> 
> I hope this is adequate, particularly the umm..... *ahem*..... saucier stuff near the end. I've literally never written anything like that before. And yet I have more graphic stuff planned. So... Shit, I hope it's okay. I feel it sucks...
> 
> Anywho. Hope you liked it. Comment to let me know what you think <3


End file.
